A Phantom's Story
by Opera Cloak
Summary: This is an original retelling of the story of Erik's life. Rejected by his real mother, Erik is adopted by his aunt, a young ballet dancer named Antoinette Giry...
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This is a retelling of the story of Erik's life, based on the ALW version of Phantom. It begins with a Prologue set in 1881, written from Christine's point of view, and then goes back to the time of Erik's birth in 1847. I began to write this story before I read Susan Kay, and I have tried to keep it as different from Kay as possible. This is the first story I have posted on Fanfiction.net so please read and review. Any comments or criticisms would be very welcome. Thank you and I hope you enjoy this story.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Erik, Christine, Raoul or MME. Giry. However, Marie (not Susan Kay's character), Philippe (not Gaston Leroux's character of the same name), Cecile and any other characters you haven't come across before belong to me.  
  
Phantom Child  
  
Prologue. Christine, 1881.  
  
I gazed at the mirror in trance-like wonder. Gradually, as the voice reached a crescendo, a dark shape became visible through the glass, becoming more and more discernible as the light brightened. Then I jumped back in shock as I beheld my Angel of Music.  
  
He was tall, very tall, taller than Raoul and much taller than me. He was imposing, but his height didn't intimidate me. His body was thin, and wrapped in a black silk cape that shimmered in the light of the lantern that he held in his hand. On his head he wore a black fedora hat which was tilted at a rather rakish angle. He stood straight, very straight, with one big white hand tucked into the folds of his beautiful cloak. But it was the sight of his face that made me jump back in shock.  
  
A ghostly white mask, made from porcelain, concealed one side of his face, matching the contours of the other side perfectly. He cocked his head on one side, as if wondering how to react to my apparent shock, and the mask reflected the light, becoming yellow, then pink, then blue, as expressive as a real human face.  
  
The uncovered side of his face was very pale, but handsome in an unconventional sort of way. He had a sleek black eyebrow that was pointed sharply at the end, but the contours of his face were soft and gentle. He had a dimple on his cheek, and the mask gave the impression that he had a large, Roman nose. His mouth was soft and delicately formed, rather pretty, and showed no signs of hostility. Overall, he had a quite soft, gentle countenance. But those eyes.  
  
His eyes were large and unbelievably expressive. They were deep set, which gave the impression that they were dark, but as I leant forward I realised that they were not brown but gold, a deep, rich, incandescent gold. His eyes met mine and I felt a thrill of fear, along with a sensation that I could not comprehend. For a moment he simply stared at me with his piercing, golden gaze, but then a shadow passed over his beautiful eyes and they suddenly showed me an acute sadness, along with a flicker of fear and apprehension.  
  
I stared at him expectantly, although in truth I had no idea what to expect. I saw his expression change to one of determination, as though he had shaken off the last of his doubts. Then he unfurled himself elegantly, revealing a beautiful evening suit, and stretched one of his large pale hands towards me. The look in his eyes became almost conspiratorial, and the corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been a smile. Come with me. You know you want to.  
  
I was hypnotised, entranced. Then I heard the commotion at the door of my dressing room; someone was furiously working the handle. I could not remember locking the door. "Christine?" The voice was desperate, pleading, but I paid it no heed. My Angel gazed at me, his eyes burning into mine. "Christine!" Come with me, follow me.Trust me. "Christine!!!" Then I heard myself speak, very, very quietly: "Go away, Raoul."  
  
My Angel, my beautiful, glorious Angel gave a smile of satisfaction. I watched in amazement as the mirror began to slide away. I stepped forward and put out my hand, and my Angel took it.I shivered. God, his hands were as cold as ice! Slightly bony around the knuckles, but otherwise smooth.I looked up at him, met his eyes, and stepped into the unknown.  
  
I gasped with shock. I had expected light, celestial light and warmth.but instead I found myself surrounded by total darkness. A cold draft struck me in the face. My Angel had let go of my hand and I felt around for him desperately. Surely my Angel had not brought me into this dreary abyss and abandoned me! Suddenly, I heard a grinding noise. The mirror was closing. I dived towards where I remembered it to be, but it was too late. I hit the rectangle of light as it closed with a thud, and stood there, gazing through the glass into my dressing room, in which the oil lamp still glowed on the table. In the same second, the door of my room suddenly flew open, and Raoul dived across the room, landing several feet away from the mirror. I watched him get to his feet, dazed and confused. He looked around the room, found nothing, and then turned his attention to the mirror. He raised his hands, ran them over the glass. I stood frozen with shock in the darkness beyond the huge mirror. Mirror.my Angel had appeared to me by way of a two-way mirror. Surely angels did not go in for such trickery! Angels didn't need to. Angels appeared to you in a blaze of light, and took you into yet more light.not darkness, surely! Alarm bells began to ring in my mind. Whoever he was, he was certainly no angel! How could I have been so stupid? I cried out "Raoul!" but he didn't seem to hear me. I reached out in order to beat my hands against the glass, but two hands took mine and restrained me. The hands, although gentle, were strong, and I knew that I would not be able to break free. I turned and beheld the apparition that stood behind me. He held up his lantern, and the glow illuminated his masked face, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. I looked at him imploringly, and then I remembered that the Angel of Music was not the only supernatural being associated with the Opera House.  
  
My God.  
  
The Phantom of the Opera!  
  
I must have mouthed the words, because the apparition smiled strangely. He gently released one of my hands but held on tightly to the other in a way that indicated he was not going to let go. Then he began to lead me through the darkness.  
  
My mind was racing. The Phantom of the Opera! The Phantom had spirited me away and no one knew where I was! What did the Phantom want with me? I thought back to the tales we had told with such relish in the Corps de Ballet. Very dark and Gothic tales; Meg was especially good at those. Maybe the Phantom wanted to kill me, or keep me prisoner forever. I struggled violently.  
  
"Let me go!"  
  
I dug my fingernails into his hand and tore at his cloak. I heard the Phantom wince and he turned to look at me in.hurt bewilderment? Then he sighed, tightened his grip despite the pain, and continued walking. I walked behind him, my fingernails still embedded in his palm.  
  
The Phantom of the Opera!  
  
As I followed him down into the Abyss, I was aware of vague shapes all around me. The glow from the Phantom's lantern danced over old discarded props and set pieces; an Egyptian mummy, a castle, the façade of a country house. We continued to walk through the darkness, and I noticed that I was being led down a spiral stairway. After a while I noticed that we were no longer passing any set pieces. The lantern simply revealed dripping walls at either side: a tunnel. Cobwebs. The floor was flat and moist. I wondered how long we had been walking, it seemed like hours. We must have been miles under Paris!  
  
Suddenly, another blast of cold air struck me in the face, and the tunnel opened out onto a narrow stone jetty. A strange blue mist swirled around us, but the most wondrous thing was stretched out before us. I gasped. The underground lake!  
  
I had heard about the artificial lake from several of the ballet girls, who were forever daring each other to go down into the basements and find it, but had never plucked up the courage. I looked out across the black, inky water, which stretched as far as I could see into the darkness. The Phantom glanced at me, and smiled proudly.  
  
I wanted to strike him.  
  
Without a word, he helped me into a little boat, a gondola, which was tied to a post on the shore. I had no choice but to sit down on the cushions within. The Phantom jumped in behind me, took a long pole, and began to steer the vessel through the dark waters.  
  
I studied him as we continued our mysterious journey. He was very attractive, so elegant and tall and sleek, his clothing so fine, the cloak so romantic. He was a magnificent figure, strangely beautiful in the darkness, which increased the aura of mystery and power that surrounded him. I smiled in spite of myself. So this was the ugly Phantom of the Opera who had a death's head and ate rats in the cellars! I felt almost smug. No matter what the ballet girls said, they had obviously never seen him! Suddenly I realised that he was studying me from behind the mask, and his fantastic eyes once again burnt into mine. I shuddered, and averted my gaze.  
  
The lake was becoming increasingly lighter as we moved along. This was mainly due to the huge candelabras that lined the edges, jutting out of the water.black, intricately carved, and Gothic. I could make out the detail of the brickwork here; the walls were still wet and dripping.  
  
The Phantom steered the boat along a narrow avenue of water, and then stopped. We appeared to have reached a dead end. However, he suddenly leaned forward, did something with the bricks, and a doorway simply swung open in the wall. I was momentarily blinded by light. The Phantom leapt out of the boat, took my hand, and helped me through the opening. I had no choice but to follow him.  
  
I did not notice any of the details of the room that night. I remember the soft glow of candlelight and the exotic scent of incense mixed with the smell of gentleman's cologne. The atmosphere was one of pure seduction, warm and soothing. The Phantom tore off his cloak, swirled it, and laid it down. He then approached me with elegant, delicate little steps. I suddenly found that I could not take my eyes from him. I watched, hypnotised, as he approached me. Surely he had cast some sort of spell over me, the Curse of the Phantom, perhaps! Then he opened his mouth, and then he sang.  
  
His voice! It was even more beautiful than I remembered it to be. Maybe he really was the Angel of Music. My Angel of Music. Oh, I don't know what he sang. He seemed to sing for hours. Operatic arias, many of which he had taught to me, folk songs, and strange, outlandish songs that I had never heard before.  
  
Throughout these strange events I was in a trance. Maybe we both were. I remember him walking, almost dancing around the room, such was his grace. I remember him bending at the knees, running his hands down his legs, stretching himself against the portcullis as if he were some sort of erotic statue in a garden. And still he sang. After a while I got used to the coldness of his touch and allowed him to hold me as he sang, my body pressed lightly against his, my head on his shoulder, his face buried in my hair. I felt his hand creep around me.I thought he was going to rest it on my breast, but instead it came to rest, very lightly, on my collar bone. Dimly, I was aware that my hand had moved to his face and was caressing his mask, and I felt his heartbeat accelerate. I had no desire to remove it, not at that point. I just wanted to touch it, to run my hand over the smooth porcelain. And I found myself wondering why he wore it. He was the most attractive man I had ever seen. Surely his face must be even more beautiful than the rest of him! Yet maybe he thought I was not ready to see such beauty yet. Maybe he considered me, a mere mortal, unworthy of witnessing the extreme beauty of the Angel of Music, or the Phantom of the Opera, or whoever he was. At that point, I was still undecided about which he was. I am still not completely sure. Maybe he was both, in a way.  
  
Dimly I was aware of him smiling as I stroked his mask. There was no malice in the smile, just pure pleasure. I looked up and saw that his beautiful eyes were warm and soft and peaceful, and he closed them sleepily. I felt his chest expand beneath his shirt and he uttered a sigh of contentment.  
  
He was timid, I knew that from the start. He held me gently, scarcely even touching me, merely caressing the air in front of me. Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself leading him, much like he had led me, to a sort of divan in the centre of the room, piled with beautiful Asian cushions. I fell onto it with a laugh, my long brown hair falling over my face.  
  
The Phantom looked worried, as though he feared that he had gone too far. I was having none of that. I grabbed him by the satin lapels of his dress coat and tried to pull him towards me. He struggled violently. I raised my hands and stroked his chest, and he froze at my touch. My hands continued on their journey downwards, towards his abdomen, and he was unable to repress a shudder of delight, his eyes glowing with heat. My hands were on the buttons of his shirt when the trance suddenly broke and I realised what I had been about to do. I immediately sprang up from the divan in fright, shocked by my shameless emotions and actions. What had got into me? I had been about to.  
  
The Phantom was now back in control. He took my hand, and I offered no resistance. Slowly, almost fearfully, he led me towards a huge shape covered with a dust cloth. He pulled it away with a great sweep of his arms, and I gazed at the object before me. It was a mirror. A shattered mirror. And behind it.an exact replica of me.in a wedding dress.  
  
I looked at the Phantom in confusion. He no longer sang. Instead he was kneeling before me, his hands clasped together as though he was begging for something. His eyes met mine, sad, pleading and desperate.  
  
Marry me.  
  
I fainted away.  
  
  
  
1. Bag of Bones Antoinette Giry. 1847.  
  
The peculiar bag of bones lay on the dirty sheets. It did not cry; it was far too weak for that. It just lay there silently. I walked over to the tiny creature and picked it up. Carefully, with a trembling hand, I tore the cruel bandages away from the tiny face.  
  
It was pale and a greyish colour. This creature was half-dead. I reached out nervously to touch it and its tiny body didn't even react to my cold touch. Maybe I was too late. Maybe it had gone.  
  
"Please don't die on me."  
  
I picked it up in my arms and nursed it, where it lay totally unaware of the ruined condition of its face and head. I heard a little gasp escape from its swollen lips and I turned it upside down, shaking it gently and rubbing its back. It still did not cry, but a tiny hand closed around my finger as if to reassure me that it was still alive.  
  
"Hello, little fellow. Are you going to open your eyes now?" I tried to sound cheerful, but tears were beginning to flow down my cheeks as I looked sadly down at the bundle in my arms.  
  
"Antoinette, where is it?" came a shout from the room opposite. "The child. Let me see it." She hadn't yet got over the shock. I could tell by her trembling voice.  
  
"It's here."  
  
"Bring it to me."  
  
I put the tiny creature in her arms where it gazed innocently up at her.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"It's a little boy, my dear."  
  
"No.I mean WHAT is it?"  
  
"It's a monstrosity, that's what it is," said the doctor, entering. " I am sorry, Madame, it's just one of those things."  
  
"What should I do about it?"  
  
"You could give him to me. I'd find a way to dispose of him for you."  
  
"Dis.dispose of him?"  
  
"Put him out of his misery. Whatever you like to call it. It's for the best. He's probably in pain, and he'll have a hard and miserable life."  
  
"How will you do it? Will he suffer at all?"  
  
"Not at all. Just a little prick, that's all he'll feel. Then it'll all be over."  
  
"Drown him," said the housekeeper, "Or burn him. A more suitable fate for a monster!"  
  
"Couldn't we just.you know.let him die naturally?"  
  
"No. It'll be kinder this way."  
  
The doctor was already wetting a spot on the child's arm and preparing his needle. Everyone fell silent, waiting. The needle touched the surface of the skin, and.  
  
"NO!!!" I shouted, making a dive for the needle and knocking it out of the doctor's hand.  
  
"Antoinette! What is the meaning of this?"  
  
"It.it's wrong!" I gasped, "It's murder! Look at him! He wonders why you're crying, and why you won't hug him!"  
  
Indeed, the look on the little creature's face was almost one of bewilderment.  
  
"Well, I'm not caring for it!"  
  
"But look at him! I know that he wants you to love him!"  
  
"Oh, Antoinette! Don't be so silly! It's only a baby! How do you know?"  
  
I clenched my fists. "I just know!" " Well, it's not his choice, is it?" She replied, angrily. "Cecile! Give him to the maid!"  
  
The little maid hovered by the bedroom door, looking absolutely terrified as the housekeeper placed the child in her trembling arms.  
  
"Please Madame. I'm frightened of it, and I've never looked after a baby before, Madame."  
  
"Would you prefer to send in your resignation instead?"  
  
The girl fled the room in tears.  
  
I saw nothing of the child for two days, at the end of which I resolved to go and look for him. I finally found him lying in a box by the maid's bed in the servant's quarters, covered by a filthy sheet and, to my great anger, with a handkerchief over his face, enough to suffocate him. I tore it away as the maid entered.  
  
"What is the meaning of this?" I asked, glaring at her. She looked ashamed, and gazed down at the thin creature in the cardboard box.  
  
"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle," she said, " I'm scared of it. I don't know how to look after it, Mademoiselle." I looked at her. She was no more than a child herself, a girl of fifteen.  
  
"Very well, I forgive you. Just give him to me."  
  
"Thank you, Mademoiselle."  
  
I took the child downstairs and showed him to his angry mother.  
  
"It isn't supposed to be down here!"  
  
"I found him in a box upstairs," I said, "We need someone to take care of him." I hung my head, shyly. "Can I take care of him, Marie?"  
  
"You! Why would you want to take care of a baby? You're a ballerina at the Opera House, aren't you? Just think of all those rehearsals! You haven't the time."  
  
"Please! I would take good care of him!"  
  
"No. I want him to be raised apart from this family completely. He must never be permitted to come down here or play with the girls. He's an orphan. I've just decided. He's an orphan whose mother died giving birth to him. We took him in. He should count his blessings. That's what I want you to tell him, when he's old enough to ask. He doesn't have a home or a family, and he has to sleep in the attic, where orphans belong! Understand?"  
  
"Marie! Why are you doing this? Why are you being so cruel?"  
  
"It's not a question of cruelty, my dear Antoinette. I have my position in society to consider."  
  
  
  
Chapter 2. Music  
  
My family had lived for many years in the large country house just outside of Rouen. Our family had consisted of me, my sister Marie, who I have already mentioned, and our father and mother. My parents had sent us both to a large boarding school for the performing arts. I had shown promise as a dancer from an early age, and Marie, with her beautiful soprano voice, had soon decided that she wanted to become a singer or actress. My parents had spoiled Marie terribly. She had long blonde hair and blue eyes, and I always considered her to be far more attractive than me.  
  
My father had been a very great master mason, who owned his own construction company. This had proved to be so successful that my family had managed to purchase and maintain the huge house and live quite comfortably in rich surroundings.  
  
It was on one sunny afternoon when Marie and I happened to visit one of my father's construction sites when she met her husband Philippe. He was a young apprentice working under my father who, he said, showed great promise. He was tall, dark and handsome and Marie, who always went for the most good - looking of young men, fell in love with him.  
  
By the time my parents had died, Marie and Philippe had married and had their first daughter, Celine. They inherited the huge country house and my father's business, and I stayed on, making frequent trips to Paris to dance at the opera house. Sometimes Philippe and Marie also went on business trips to Paris, and they would come to the Opera to watch me perform.  
  
Two more children soon followed, both daughters, Michelle and Louise. All three children were very beautiful, and their parents spoiled them as my father had spoiled Marie. However, Philippe and Marie remained desperate for a son, and the result of their next attempt to have a child was the young man who I have already mentioned and about whom more will follow.  
  
Marie's apparent fear and loathing of her fourth child upset me to say the least. I also wanted a family of my own, and I was deeply hurt when Marie showed her distaste at me taking care of her now unwanted son. She appeared to think that she could treat him how she wanted, and lock the infant away while she bestowed her favour on her three beautiful daughters.  
  
I knew that it wasn't right from the beginning.  
  
Marie decided to place the new born in the care of her housekeeper Cecile, a hard- hearted and stern woman who had neither the time nor the patience to care for a child, never mind a congenitally deformed one.  
  
As soon as Marie gave the housekeeper her orders, she turned her nose up at him and declared that she didn't know how, but Marie threatened her with dismissal, so she had no choice but to do as she said.  
  
From then on the tiny child slept in a cradle in a dirty old cupboard beneath the attic staircase. The housekeeper would never play or talk to him, and during his first months on Earth the poor little thing didn't even receive any kind words or compassion.  
  
I watched him grow from a safe distance. He became extremely comical in appearance, with his little stick body and large, gentle hands, which seemed to be everywhere. His face, although deformed, always appeared kind and gentle despite the difficult situations he often found himself in. With his curious, dragging step he blundered around the house's upper storeys with bright, interested eyes.  
  
He was soon too big for the cupboard, and was moved into the servant's quarters in the attic, a sad, dull room which was cold even in the hottest summer months. Still the little boy, believing he had nothing better to look forward to, welcomed the wardrobe and the battered old chest of drawers, the worn carpet, and the little window without glass which he would often gaze out of and see other little children playing below. He tried to get accustomed to the hard bed and he remained in that room, doing what he could to entertain himself, and every now and then he would stop, stare into space, and wonder what it was all about.  
  
He was three when I heard the music start. I was peacefully reading a book late one evening in my room when a strange, beautiful sound began to issue through the ceiling. It sounded like a violin. The tone was perfect and the sound rich and deeply moving. It seemed to be playing an old folk song, very touching and sad, but delightful to listen to all the same. For a few moments I simply laid there, with my eyes closed, allowing this strange, eerie music to wash over me.And then my eyes opened wide with shock at the realisation that no one in my family had played the violin for years. I sprang up and made for the door of my room, but then froze. The violin had not ceased.but someone had begun to sing.  
  
The voice was one of the sweetest and most angelic I had ever heard, and it only took me a second to realise that it was not the classical soprano voice that Marie possessed. No, this voice was a bell-like treble, beautiful, delicate, harmonious.but obviously untrained. However, this only served to add to the beauty of the voice. It had not been moulded or twisted by modern training. Instead, it remained pure and natural, musical beauty in its sweetest and most divine form. It also occurred to me that the voice did not know the words of the song. Instead, it followed the melody perfectly with smooth, soothing sounds. It intoxicated me.  
  
I suddenly felt a desperate need to discover the source of this extraordinary music. Slowly, I opened the door of my room and walked down the hallway. I followed the voice, as though hypnotised, up the attic staircase and along a narrow passageway. The music seemed to be coming from behind the door of the attic bedroom. Surely it couldn't be.  
  
Slowly, being careful not to startle the creature, the musician, whom I knew occupied this room, I pushed the door open. I immediately caught sight of the small boy sitting on a stool. He had his back to me, and he appeared to be playing the violin. I crept closer.I could scarcely believe the sight which had met my eyes.a tiny, three year old child, wearing an old grey suit, playing the violin as if it were a cello, and..singing. My God.the music.the music.it seemed to come from the depths of the soul. He was so young, so delicate, and yet he was producing sounds the like of which I had never heard in my lifetime. I felt myself being irresistibly drawn towards the sound of the voice and the violin.and I began walking slowly across the room.I wanted to stand beside this mysterious virtuoso.I wanted to become lost in his music, put on my ballet shoes, and dance as though I was on the stage of the Paris Opera House. The music.  
  
A floorboard creaked under foot, and the spell was instantly broken. The child spun around and looked up at me, his eyes wide. Then he dropped the violin with fright and fled into the storeroom beyond.  
  
"Wait!" I cried, but he was gone.  
  
I returned to my room feeling greatly surprised and puzzled by what I had heard. Who had taught him how to play that violin? I knew that Cecile wasn't in the least bit musical, and she always avoided spending time with him unless she really had to. He must have taught himself.And as for that voice.  
  
I decided not to tell anyone about my strange discovery. I thought it might have been a one off, a fluke, but deep down inside I knew it couldn't be. Sure enough, it happened again, and again, usually late at night or in the early hours of the morning. It was stunning music, rather eerie in its heavenly beauty. I kept telling myself that I must inform Marie of her son's talent, and then realised that she probably wouldn't care. In any case, I suppose I was being a bit greedy. I wanted this strange child prodigy to make music for me and me alone. I'm still not sure why.  
  
  
  
Author's Note: Please review! I will update my story soon. 


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Thanks for all your lovely reviews! This chapter is all about Erik's childhood relationship with Madame Giry. There is no Christine in this chapter, but there will be in later chapters. As for Erik and Christine getting together.I'm not sure. I haven't thought that far ahead, to be honest! But I'll see what I can do. Hope you enjoy!  
  
A Phantom's Story.  
  
Chapter Two  
  
Just as the child was approaching his fourth birthday I became aware of a darker aspect of his lonely existence. One evening, just as I was preparing to go to bed, I heard a loud, childlike scream from the room above. Startled, I crept up the attic staircase only to see the housekeeper shaking a small figure violently by the shoulders. I immediately shrank back into the shadows against the wall.  
  
"Look what you've done!" the housekeeper screamed, twisting the child's arm as he whimpered with pain. "Look at the state of the bed sheets! LOOK!" She pointed in the direction of the bed in his room, from which I could smell the strong scent of urine.  
  
Tears were running down his deformed cheek. "I'm.I'm sorry."  
  
"I just changed them this morning!" She shrieked, shaking him even harder.  
  
"I'm.sorry.I had a nightmare."  
  
"Nightmare indeed! You just enjoy being a nuisance! Fancy screaming like that! You could have woken the whole house! It's about time you grew out of all your childish habits!"  
  
"I'm sorry.I didn't mean to." he sobbed, desperately trying to pull away from the housekeeper.  
  
"Didn't mean to, indeed. You hideous little monster! I don't know why I bother! You ungrateful, worthless, hideous little monster!" And she struck him violently across the face. He gave a shriek of pain and sank to the floor, crying piteously and clutching his poor face with his hands. I could bear it no longer, and began to sob loudly in the darkness. The housekeeper's attention was momentarily diverted away from the child.  
  
"Who's there!" She demanded. When I made no reply, she turned back to the sobbing bundle on the floor. "If I find that anyone else has been awoken by your shameful behaviour, I shall beat you senseless!"  
  
I knew she meant it, and, to my great shame, I found myself creeping silently back down the stairs. There was nothing I could do for the child at the moment that would not inflict further pain. I cried myself to sleep that night.  
  
Over the next few months the violence continued. The child was spanked almost constantly by the housekeeper, finding that he was not able to do anything right. I was awoken most mornings, and indeed nights, by the sound of Cecile shouting at him for some minor offence. I hated sitting back and allowing him to be abused and beaten, but I felt totally helpless. I tried talking to Marie, trying to persuade her that I could look after her son, and told her of the abuse he received from the housekeeper. She wouldn't even listen to me, and I knew then that she wanted to cast all thoughts of him from her mind. I still felt extremely guilty for not helping him, however, and one day I could take no more.  
  
It was a warm bright day in early spring and I had just returned from one of my regular trips to the Opera House in Paris, having danced there the previous night. I was exhausted, and immediately went upstairs to change and get some well-earned rest. I had not been in my room long when I heard a familiar, shrill scream from above, and the sound of the housekeeper shouting at the top of her voice. The scream was quickly followed by childlike sobs and whimpers. Concerned as usual, I tiptoed up the attic staircase, hid in a nearby cupboard until she had left his room, then crept in silently. He didn't notice me. Instead he remained lying on his bed, his face buried deep in his pillow.  
  
"Are you all right?" He jumped and lifted his head. He was still weeping quietly, from pain, sadness, sheer terror or a combination of all three I still do not know to this day.  
  
"Who are you?" He looked fearful, so I tried to speak as gently as I could.  
  
"My name's Antoinette. Are you all right?"  
  
"My face hurts." His voice trembled.  
  
"Turn around. Let me see." He turned, and I saw that there was a large cut in the deformed flesh of his face.  
  
"She hit me again."  
  
"Why?" I asked, horrified.  
  
"I went exploring downstairs, and she caught me and punished me. I only wanted to see what it was like. I wasn't stealing or anything, honestly!"  
  
"I'm sure you weren't."  
  
"She dragged me back up here and said: " No wonder your Mama doesn't love you, you little monster!" And I said: "You told me that my Mama died when I was born! You said that I was an orphan!" And she said: "Don't answer back! Little children like you should be seen and not heard!"  
  
"Never mind!" I said, gazing at the sad, dull room and his thin, ragged form. He deserved better than this. He deserved the truth.  
  
"I'm sorry, my dear," I said, "Your Mama didn't die when you were born. She lives downstairs. She's called Marie." He looked at me, bewildered.  
  
"Why doesn't she love me?"  
  
Here I was faced with a delicate situation. Had the housekeeper told him about his deformity? Was he too young to understand?  
  
"Has the housekeeper ever told you that your face looks a bit.funny?"  
  
"No. Why? What's wrong with it?"  
  
"Nothing! It's just a bit red, that's all. Probably where she hit you."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"It's not that she doesn't love you! It's just that she's very busy. Your father's very busy too. He's a mason."  
  
"Why haven't they ever spoken to me though?"  
  
"They've been away," I lied hastily. "Because of your father's job. They only just got back yesterday."  
  
"Will you take me downstairs so I can live with them?"  
  
"No. They're still very tired."  
  
"Can I live with you then? I don't like the housekeeper. She beats me and shouts at me."  
  
I thought for a moment. Why not? He deserved better, and I could look after him. I could make his room better. Buy him some nice things.  
  
"I'll go down and speak to your Mama. Wait a minute.What's your name?" I asked suddenly. He looked at me uncertainly.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Well. what does the housekeeper call you?"  
  
He thought for a moment.  
  
"Little Monster," he said at last.  
  
"Do you know why she calls you that?"  
  
"No."  
  
I heaved a sigh of relief.  
  
I went downstairs and once again I asked his mother for permission to look after him. She said yes, since I seemed to feel so attached to the " little monster."  
  
I immediately went upstairs to tell him the good news. He uttered an exclamation of delight and tried to jump into my arms, but his legs gave way beneath him. He looked up at me with great pleading eyes, and, concerned, I immediately lifted him into my arms. He rubbed his face against my shoulder and closed his eyes. I carried him carefully downstairs and laid him down in my large, canopied bed. He gave a little sigh of contentment and was asleep within minutes, the tears still drying on his red cheeks. I allowed my eyes to explore his poor face. He was very ugly, I could not deny that, but his face had such a soft look about it that I found that I was not in the least bit scared or squeamish. Remembering my earlier concern over his fall, I lifted the covers and gently examined his legs. How thin they were! Upon closer inspection I discovered that his right ankle was twisted slightly, and the flesh was scarred and wrinkled. Now I knew why he walked in such an unusual way. I sighed. This, I knew, would turn out to be a life long responsibility.  
  
I called the child 'Erik' after my father. He deserves a decent name. Unlike 'Little Monster,' Erik is a fine and dignified name, which means 'eternal king.' It suits him very well. He's the king of his own little domain up here, four storeys up from the fields and gardens. The king of his own private world of music and the arts, which I share frequently.  
  
The first thing I did to try and improve Erik's quality of life was to redecorate his room. I almost immediately asked Marie for some money to buy new glass for his window and purchase some new furniture, but she refused. I was very angry at the time, but she insisted that she and Philippe would only pay for 'its' food and clothing, and I would have to buy anything extra myself. Although I was considered a very talented dancer among the Opera House staff, I was not paid a great deal. I had never had to worry about money before and had always looked upon my career at the Opera House as merely a hobby. The first thing I bought (the glass) almost left me bankrupt, but I refused to give up. I immediately set about cleaning and repairing the existing furniture, and, although it still appeared tatty and inadequate, it proved to be a vast improvement. With the money I managed to save I bought him some new toys and books. I also enjoyed making him things. I found mobiles the most enjoyable. Using bits of paper and other materials I found around the house, I made him some spectacular mobiles; silver moons and stars, galloping horses made from black felt, musical instruments and symbols. I made him a large rag rug to put on the floor beside his bed, and several patchwork quilts and pillowcases.  
  
Although I loved dancing and desperately needed the money, I kept my visits to the Opera House at a minimum. There was one reason for this: Cecile. I soon discovered that Erik was even more afraid of Cecile than I had first perceived, and every time she came up to the attic he would hide behind my legs, trembling with fear. I felt so cruel having to leave him alone in the attic with her. She loathed him due to his disfigurement and I wouldn't have been in the least bit surprised if I had arrived back home to find her attempting to perform surgery on his face. But I knew that it was impossible for him to come with me, so I left him in his attic, and threatened Cecile with dismissal if she ever dared to lay a finger on him.  
  
Because of my limited salary, it took me along time to save enough money to buy him some more expensive items. Luckily, by the time our first Christmas arrived, I had enough money to buy him a decent present. It took me a while to decide what to buy for him. He was clever but still very young and liked the sort of things every small child likes. In the end I decided to go to Paris and look for something really unusual. He was fascinated by anything remotely exotic or curious, and in the end I found him the perfect present.  
  
It was a music box, of all things, found in a tiny shop in the Montmartre district of Paris. The shop specialised in beautifully made, often imported, toys. Dolls houses and toy theatres lined the walls, and mobiles hung from the ceiling. The most curious items, however, were the automaton. One of the most beautiful of these was a music box shaped like a barrel organ. It was painted with shiny black paint, but decorated with beautiful gold carvings on each side, and had little carved legs. It had a tassel on the front, purely for decoration, and a long gold handle. On top of the box was a red velvet cushion. A monkey sat on the cushion, crafted from wood and covered in brown fur. It wore an intricately embroidered Persian robe and held a pair of little brass cymbals. When the handle was turned, the monkey would play the cymbals and the box would play an adorable little tune.  
  
I also purchased a lovely little toy theatre, one of those that can be assembled by the owner. It was a model of the Opera House on the Rue le Peletier. Erik was forever questioning me about my place of work and I knew that, this way, he would be able to see what it looked like.  
  
Erik was delighted with his gifts. In fact he was so delighted that it was almost embarrassing. He assembled the theatre in the space of an hour and questioned me about its various architectural features. He was fascinated by the music box, and swore that he would go to Persia one day himself. I closed my eyes in despair, because I knew, even back then, that he would not be able to journey to the nearest village, never mind foreign lands. Poor Erik.  
  
As for Erik's deformity, I ordered a doctor to come to the house. The young man seemed very kind, and he was clearly concerned for the child's welfare. He gently examined his face and said that he may be able to sew up a rather nasty hare- lip, which had been giving him difficulty while talking. Erik was nervous when it came to his operation. I was there by his side the whole time, holding his hand as he took the laudanum, and watching him fall asleep quickly as the doctor prepared some cat- gut.  
  
He didn't know what was happening: I made sure of that. I explained to him before hand that the doctor was treating a nasty cut in his face from his confrontation with the housekeeper. Fortunately he believed me. It wasn't entirely a lie because the doctor took care of that, too.  
  
When he awoke, with a confused, dazed expression on his face, I hugged his small, thin form. He was crying with confusion and feeling sick, but I stayed by his bedside until he fell asleep again, gazing at his less than perfect, yet slightly more attractive lips.  
  
Our days together fell into a pattern. He would wake up first, and wait for me to come upstairs, and then pounce on me the moment I entered his room. I would take him some breakfast from the kitchens, help him wash and dress, and after lunch his education would begin. I taught him music and art, which he really enjoyed. I also taught him matematics and English, and, although I am no academic, I could tell that he was going to be exceptionally clever. I also tried to help him walk properly, for he had developed a slight limp. He seemed to have a problem with his writing, and he would get really frustrated when he couldn't join his letters. After tea I would read him a story or play with him, and then I would tuck him in. He seemed to smile up at me every night, although he couldn't really smile, as though to tell me in his own little way that he was grateful and happy. I think he knew how much trouble I had gone to in order to rescue him.  
  
By the time Erik had reached the age of five, he was a lively, skinny little thing with boundless energy. He loved to climb and run around, and I knew that the attic was getting too small for him. Unable to burn off his excess energy, Erik began to put on weight. I was delighted at first; Erik had always been stick thin and I knew that it would probably do him good. However, Erik soon became visibly uncomfortable. He had no room to exercise and the weight gain began to make him irritable and restless. I feared that Erik would soon become overweight, but I could think of no way in which I could allow him to exercise. He was not allowed downstairs and I knew I could not take him outside, so he remained in his attic, growing increasingly restless with each passing day. One day, I arrived home from the Opera House only to find that Erik was not in his room. Remembering his discomfort at being confined to the attic, I immediately began to panic: What if he had escaped and gone exploring outside? And then I heard the familiar sound of his angelic singing voice floating upwards from a lower storey. Despite my relief, I knew that it was considered a serious crime for Erik to go downstairs.  
  
Following the sound of his voice, I ran downstairs until I reached the living room on the first floor. I pushed open the door and there was Erik, standing with his back to me, singing at the top of his voice. Then I gasped with shock. Marie was standing at the other side of the room, trembling violently, her back pressed against the wall. She was staring at Erik with an expression of horror and dreadful fascination, like a victim mesmerised by a rattlesnake.  
  
I took a deep breath. "Erik.come away now. I don't think she wants to hear you sing."  
  
Erik didn't react, but my voice seemed to end Marie's paralysis. Before I could stop her, she reached for the nearest object, a book, covered the room in three long strides, and brought it down with awful precision on Erik's head.  
  
Erik's song ended, and he screamed with pain just as Marie brought the book down again, this time between the shoulder blades.  
  
"Get away!" She shrieked. "Get away! You horrible, repulsive, ugly creature! Get away!" The book came down again, and Erik keeled over. He whimpered with terror as Marie raised the book for another attack, and I leapt forward, catching her hand just in time.  
  
"Leave him alone!" I screamed, snatching the book from her hands and pushing her violently back against the wall. "Don't touch him again! If you dare touch him again I'll."  
  
Marie's rage seemed to end, and she crumpled against the wall. I ran over to Erik's stricken body and tried to comfort him. He was shaking violently and sobbing with terror and bewilderment.  
  
"Erik.are you alright?"  
  
Erik sniffed and nodded his head. I gathered him into my arms. "Come on, darling. You're safe now." I gently messaged his shoulders and stroked his fluffy hair, which, I realised, was stained with blood from a wound on his head. Holding him tightly to me, I looked up at Marie with a glare on my face.  
  
"How could you?" I cried. "How could you do this to your little boy?"  
  
Marie gazed at Erik with an expression of revulsion and terror. She didn't seem to hear me.  
  
"I thought I told you to keep that monster of yours out of here?" She growled.  
  
I was furious. "My monster? Since when was he my monster? He's yours really." my voice trailed off as I remembered that the monster in question was still curled up in my arms. "And anyway, he's no monster! How could you be so cruel! He only wanted to sing for you!"  
  
"He shouldn't have come down here! It's your responsibility to keep him up there! He startled me, and I didn't want to hear him sing!"  
  
I looked at her with an expression of pure fury. "How was he to know that? You're just being selfish and spiteful and cruel! But what else was I to expect from you? Come on, Erik!"  
  
And I stormed out of the room.  
  
I took the trembling bundle back upstairs and laid him on his bed. I carefully checked him over, asking him where it hurt. Luckily the wound on his head wasn't as bad as I expected; Marie must not have hit him as hard as I had thought. However, he was still a bit dazed, and his back and shoulders hurt. I tucked Erik into his bed and quickly sent a servant girl down to the village to fetch the doctor. The young man looked at Erik's injuries and declared that he would be fine, but he seemed concerned about Erik's state of shock. I had told the doctor that he had taken a tumble while climbing, but the man seemed unconvinced. However, he said nothing, and dressed the wound on Erik's head. He also gave me some medicine to help Erik sleep, and told me to give it to him before bed.  
  
As soon as the young man left the house, Erik began to sob again. His bottom lip had been trembling ever since the doctor had arrived, and I had known that tears were coming. I took him in my arms again and asked him what was wrong.  
  
"I'm sorry, Aunt Giry!" He sobbed. "So sorry! I couldn't stand it any longer, I had to go for a walk, and then I heard her singing! I'm sorry!"  
  
"Now, now. You've got nothing to be sorry about! I know you've been feeling trapped lately. Hush, hush! Tell me what happened next."  
  
"I followed the sound of her voice," Erik sniffed. "It was such a beautiful voice. I couldn't resist.it sounded like the voice of an angel. I pushed open the door and she was standing in the centre of the room, singing. And I thought that she must be an angel, because she was so beautiful. I have never seen such beauty! And her voice.I wanted desperately to sing with her, to hear my own voice alongside hers, but she seemed to freeze with horror as soon as she saw me. I meant her no harm! I loved her! I didn't mean to scare her like that! She's my mother, oh, yes, I know she's my mother, and when she struck me.it upset me so much!"  
  
"I know, I know."  
  
Erik looked up at me, his eyes suddenly curious.  
  
"Aunt Giry?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Why did she strike me? Is my voice so awful?"  
  
I rested my cheek against the top of his head. "No.no.not at all. I think you startled her," I replied, truthfully. "She's nervous and easily startled."  
  
Erik sighed. "Oh." There was a pause, as I held him. And then, nervously: "Aunt Giry?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"What does 'deformed' mean?"  
  
I sprang back in shock. "Where did you hear that word?"  
  
"I overheard you and the doctor talking one day. He said something about me being deformed. What does it mean?"  
  
He sounded a little frightened, as though he somehow feared my reply. I looked sympathetically into those large eyes. He was too young.far too young to bare the reality of this yet.  
  
"That's nothing for you to worry about, dear," I said, attempting to sound convincing.  
  
He still seemed unsure.  
  
"Is deformed the same as ugly?" He asked, fretfully. "It's just that she said I was ugly."  
  
I tried desperately to swallow the lump in my throat. "No, Erik." I said, finally.  
  
"Deformed just means that you're.a little bit different, that's all. Absolutely nothing to worry about. But unfortunately some people seem to think it means ugly, yes."  
  
"So I'm ugly?" he sniffed, gazing up at me with those beautiful eyes. I sighed. I knew that, in reality, Erik was not pleasant to look at, but I could not bring myself to tell him that.  
  
"Of course not! Some people might say that you are, but you should never listen to them. You're just as beautiful and valuable as everyone else, I promise you."  
  
Erik let his head fall back against the pillow. He seemed reassured, if only for the moment. I held out the vial of medicine and he obediently drank it. His eyes closed, and I pulled the bedclothes more tightly around him, snuffing out the candle.  
  
As I began to turn away, I heard Erik's voice again, this time sounding very sleepy. "Aunt Giry?"  
  
"Yeesss?"  
  
"Is deformed like having long fingers?"  
  
I blinked in surprise. "What?"  
  
"Long fingers. I have very long fingers. That's quite unusual, isn't it? It's deformed. And I have little feet."  
  
"Yes!" I replied hastily, relieved. "That's exactly what it is! Yes!"  
  
Erik smiled drowsily. "I like having long fingers." and he fell into a deep sleep.  
  
It was only when I was well out of earshot that I began to cry. It had been a narrow escape, such a narrow escape from revealing the truth.  
  
After this unpleasant incident, Erik did not venture downstairs any more. He seemed to resign himself to life in the attic, contenting himself with more creative activities as opposed to 'walking' and exploring. Despite his slight weight gain and the almost total lack of exercise, he remained very thin, and I found myself glancing suspiciously at the small portions which the cook prepared for him. He never complained about the amount of food he was given, however, and would always devour whatever was put in front of him ravenously. As a consequence, and despite my almost total absence of culinary skills, I decided to start cooking for him on an evening.  
  
Another, rather frightening consequence of his violent experience with Marie was that he totally lost confidence in his own voice. I begged him to sing for me on many occasions, but he would shake his head fearfully and slink away to play the violin. Sometimes he tried to sing when he thought no one else was nearby, but the voice which emerged was not the beautiful treble voice he had once possessed, but an unpleasant, raspy squeak. It sounded like it was permanently stuck in the upper register, and it was often quiet and edged with tears. From behind the door of the attic bedroom I would listen to his desperate attempts to find his lost voice. He would rasp, squeak, and strain until his throat was sore. Sometimes he would end up sobbing and, forced to intervene, I would enter his room only to find that he had collapsed onto the bed with exhaustion. I decided that it was a confidence thing; he still thought that Marie had struck him because his voice sounded awful. I tried to reassure him that he had the most beautiful voice I had ever heard, but his singing ability did not return. After a while he stopped trying, and he seemed to forget that he had ever possessed such a gift. His violin and piano playing skills did not fade, but I still miss the sound of that angelic voice, and I pray that, one-day, I will hear it again.  
  
The third, rather disturbing consequence of Erik's confrontation with his mother was the fact that he became even more interested in her. I could tell that he was in awe of her beauty, both physically and vocally, and I knew he secretly wished that he could meet her again despite her act of violence. He continuously asked me questions about her and the rest of his family, until in the end I satisfied his curiosity by bringing him an old family tree book to look at, along with several portraits. He was strangely delighted with the small line portrait of Marie and insisted that I stood it on his bedside table. Despite my distress at this fascination with the mother whom I knew would never exist for him outside pictures and dreams, I did not have the heart to deny him this small pleasure. Even now, I often catch him staring at it in wonder, as if his mother was truly the angel he had first perceived her to be, a beautiful celestial being whom he knew would never sing for him again.  
  
He's eight years old now, and he's still the same skinny little creature he always was. His disfigured face is always mischievous and happy, and his habits are still the same. He still limps around the attic looking for trouble, and sometimes, when I decide to spend a night up in the attic in the room next door to him, he sneaks in. The next morning I discover him, stretched over my legs like a huge silken foot warmer, and snoring loudly.  
  
He's still at once naughty and friendly in his own way. His lips have changed shape as he's grown older, giving him a curious, crooked smile which he often displays to show warmth, happiness, and love.  
  
Love. He gives love unconditionally, and I worry that sometime soon he'll venture back Downstairs, on a valiant quest to find his lost mother and, even if she rejects him, he'll still love her anyway. I wish I could give him all the love that a real mother could give, which brings me to another of my worries.  
  
He's still blissfully unaware of the condition of his face and head. He thinks he's just a normal, happy little boy. It can't go on forever. I wish it could. Poor little thing! Why ever did this have to happen to him? This terrible fate, this life sentence of misery forever hanging over his head! He'll find out eventually, and I dread to think how sad and frightened he'll be. I've done all I can. I'll just have to be there to comfort him when the time comes. It's too late now to repair the damage that has already been done.  
  
Does he know already? I don't think so. No, he doesn't. And yet his eyes always seem to possess a wisdom beyond his years, a knowledge of the universe and nature beyond the reaches of any ordinary mortal, of which he is perhaps still unaware.  
  
Those gentle, patient, understanding eyes are fixed on me now. I think he wants his dinner. You can always tell! 


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: Thanks again for your reviews! This is a very short chapter written from the point of view of young Erik.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, but any characters in this story which you have never heard of before are mine.  
Erik, 1856  
  
I live in a large country house near a city called Rouen. I think this is right, but I'm not sure. I never go out, you see.  
  
My parents are nearly always away, because my father usually has to work in Paris. I think he's a mason. I've never met my father, but I met my mother once. I can't quite remember what happened.I know I heard her singing, and then I think I was hurt somehow.I remember feeling pain and being scared.it's all simply a blur in my memory. But I remember how beautiful her voice was, it was like an angel's voice, and sometimes I hear it in my dreams. I also know that she's very beautiful, because I have a little portrait of her on my bedside table. I wish I could see her again and speak to her and my father, but they're always too busy or too tired when they come back from Paris.  
  
I'm not alone, however, because I've got my aunt to keep me company during the long days I spend in the attic. She's called Antoinette Giry, and she's very kind to me. She seems to love me very much. She spends a lot of her time up here in my attic bedroom, talking to me and playing with me. She's looked after me for as long as I can remember, and she's even taught me how to play the piano.  
  
Sometimes I feel a little frightened up here in the attic all alone, when Aunt Giry goes to dance at the Opera House in Paris, but she's given me lots of nice things and she's always there when I need her. I love Aunt Giry.  
  
The only other person I ever see in my attic is a young man, some sort of doctor. He looks at my face, washes it, and occasionally bandages it. He says I have what's called a "congenital deformity," but what that means is beyond me, and no one's ever bothered to explain to me properly. I have a vague memory of my aunt once telling me that it means I'm different. Sometimes my face feels a little sore, and he says I have a "skin ailment." But, apart from that, I don't see what all the fuss is about.  
  
Sometimes, the doctor and Aunt Giry send me out of the room while they talk. I overhear them say big words like "congenital," "ostracism," and "ridicule." They also talk about someone called "Outcast." Whoever this Outcast is, I feel extremely sorry for him, because he has to live all alone, with no aunt to cuddle or comfort him. Then, after a long discussion, the doctor pats me on the head, and says "Be a good boy, Erik, and try to be brave." Then he leaves, muttering "Poor little dear" under his breath.  
  
Sometimes, when I feel a little lonely, I look out of my window and watch other children playing in the fields below. I wish I could play with them. I always try to smile at them and press my nose against the glass, but I don't think they ever see me. I wish I had some friends, and I imagine what it would be like playing with them. There are three girls in pretty dresses and two little boys in suits. They always have a skipping rope with them. I wish I could learn to skip, but there's no room in the attic. I try to think of names for them. Names from books. The smallest girl is called "Belle" and the largest boy is called "Beast." Strange name, but nice nevertheless.  
  
However, sometimes I get scared when I watch them, because every time I look down and see them skipping they suddenly mutter things about a monster and point to the sky, making funny signs with their hands. Then they run off, screaming. I wonder why this creature is after these children? Sometimes I have nightmares about the monster in the sky, imagining (and I have a very vivid imagination) it gobbling me up along with the rest of Rouen.  
  
During the day, Aunt Giry teaches me how to read and write. I'm a very good reader now, but I can't quite manage to write properly. I can hardly ever join my letters, but it depends on how I feel. When people watch me I feel embarrassed and small, but, when I'm alone, I become a great artist.  
  
Sometimes, when Aunt Giry's away, I'm left alone with my mother's housekeeper. Oh, she's a nasty piece of work! She's very unkind to me. I've often heard my aunt warning her not to touch me while she's away, but sometimes she comes into my attic bedroom to collect the laundry or remove the dirty bedclothes. I'm very frightened of her. I don't know why, but every time I see her I begin to tremble. Maybe she did something cruel to me long ago that I can't remember. She never speaks to me when she enters my room, but I know she's aware that I'm scared of her. She always smirks at me when she sees that I'm trembling, and sometimes she makes a sudden movement towards me and laughs when she sees me jump. Sometimes, when there's another servant up in the attic with her, they laugh at me behind my back and make jokes about the way I walk and talk. I limp slightly and have a strange, unpredictable voice, which can be low or high pitched depending on my mood. I'm sure she comes up to my attic for the express purpose of making fun of me. I always complain to my aunt about her, and ask her if I really do walk and talk in the wrong way, but she just laughs and smiles and cuddles me and says she doesn't care. I think she really loves me! 


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Here is another chapter from Erik's point of view, in which the events immediately following the previous two chapters are described. This chapter, however, is written as though Erik is remembering the events a year or so in the future. Please review! I hope you enjoy.  
Erik, 1857  
  
The trouble started on an occasion when my aunt had gone to dance at the Opera House in Paris. I had been left alone in my bedroom and I had been peaceably playing the violin for most of the afternoon. My concentration was suddenly broken by the most tremendous row coming from downstairs. I decided to go out onto the landing and investigate. I knew my aunt didn't really like me to leave my room while she was away, but my natural curiosity got the better of me. I slowly crept out onto the landing and looked down at the scene below.I could just make out several figures in the downstairs hallway, and I could hear joyful shouts.maybe my parents had returned from a business trip to Paris. I crept further down the attic staircase, and beheld the figure of my mother. It had to be my mother.I recognised her from my portrait. She was holding a beautiful blonde little girl in her arms, and both were laughing gaily. I watched in wonder as she bent her head and pressed her lips against the girl's cheek. Two other girls also ran to greet her. I was both touched and saddened by this vision of family togetherness. They made a lovely group, all laughing and talking together, and I suddenly found myself wishing that I could go downstairs and share in their mutual warmth and love. Maybe I could ask my aunt if I could go down and see them when she came back. It might be a good opportunity to meet my parents, now that they were both together. Smiling wistfully to myself, I made my way back up to my room.  
  
Late that evening, when my aunt returned, she was surprised to find that I was still awake. She looked at me suspiciously for a moment or two, and then smiled.  
  
"You've been up to something today!" she said, with mock seriousness. "You've got that innocent look on your face.I can always tell when you've been up to something! Well, what have you got to say to me?"  
  
I swallowed nervously.I knew that I was about to ask a brave question.  
  
"Aunt Giry?"  
  
"Yes, what is it?"  
  
"Please can I go and see my parents tomorrow?"  
  
My aunt was visibly startled, and she looked at me in surprise.  
  
"What makes you ask that?"  
  
"I saw them coming into the house today.they were greeting my sisters.can I go and see them?"  
  
My aunt shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. They'll be too busy."  
  
"Please! I'd love to meet them!"  
  
"No! And don't you dare leave your room when I'm away again!"  
  
I stepped back in shock.my aunt had never spoken to me like this before. "I'm.I'm sorry."  
  
My aunt's face softened. "It's all right.just promise you won't do it again."  
  
I nodded hastily. "I promise."  
  
That night, after my aunt had tucked me in, I lay on my bed and thought. Why had my aunt reacted so strangely to my request? She never usually spoke to me like that.it had quite upset me. She had seemed startled and angry.what was she hiding from me?  
  
I looked around my little bedroom in bewilderment, my eyes resting first on my piano, then on my violin, which had been propped up against a chair. Finally, my eyes rested on my bedside table, where the small portrait of my mother stood. I felt tears form in my eyes. Why didn't she ever want to see me? What had I done to upset her? For the first time in my life I really began to feel lonely and unhappy. My mother was downstairs, with my father and sisters, and this portrait was the closest I could get to her.  
  
I didn't sleep a wink that night, and I was still awake the next morning when my aunt entered the room.  
  
"Your breakfast's ready, Erik," she said, putting a tray down on the table. "What's the matter?" She had seen how sad I looked, and she walked over to the bed to stand beside me. "Are you upset because I shouted at you yesterday? I'm sorry."  
  
"No," I said, shaking my head. "It's just that.I'm lonely, that's all."  
  
Aunt Giry sat down next to me. "Oh," she said. "I see."  
  
"Why don't they want to see me, Auntie? Have I done something wrong?"  
  
"No, of course not." She put her arms around me. "It's just that your parents have been very busy over the last few years. You know, what with your father's job and all."  
  
"But why can't they find time to see me? I am their son, after all."  
  
"Never mind," said my aunt, smiling at me. "I'll have a word with your mother tomorrow. Maybe she'll let you go down and say hello. Would that make you feel better?"  
  
"Yes. Thank you, Auntie."  
  
The following morning I was up bright and early, hoping that my aunt would soon come in and tell me that I could go down and see my parents. I dressed, had some breakfast, and tried to play the piano, but I was so restless that I found it impossible. Eventually, I decided to sneak downstairs and look for Aunt Giry myself.  
  
I soon found her, standing by what must have been the living room door. As I approached her I saw how angry she looked. She didn't seem to notice me at first. Instead she remained standing there, shaking her head and muttering things under her breath. I bounded over to meet her.  
  
"Hello," I said. "What's the matter?"  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry Erik," she said, sadly. "Your mother and father are too busy. You can't see them today."  
  
I was more than unhappy now. I was furious. "It's not fair!" I exclaimed, nearly in tears. " They're ALWAYS TIRED! They're ALWAYS TOO BUSY! WHY CAN'T I SPEND SOME TIME WITH THEM FOR A CHANGE?!"  
  
"I'm sorry Erik, but."  
  
"But WHAT?"  
  
"It's just that.I know! Why don't you come upstairs with me and play your violin?"  
  
This just infuriated me even more. She was keeping something from me, and trying to distract my attention away from the door.  
  
"No!" I cried angrily. "I'm going to see my parents!"  
  
"But Erik, you can't!"  
  
"Try and stop me!"  
  
With that, I pushed past poor Aunt Giry and flung the door open. Everything in the room was silent. As I stood in the doorway, two heads turned in my direction. My father appeared quite handsome, and he eyed me with interest. My mother would have been very beautiful, if it wasn't for the cold look of distaste on her face. I began to tremble uncontrollably.  
  
"Mo.Mother?" I inquired, nervously. My mother glared at me. "I'm.sorry. I'll.I'll go."  
  
"Good idea," she said, with anger in her voice. "And don't you dare disturb me, or any members of my family ever again!"  
  
"You mean.you don't want to speak to me?"  
  
"No, I do not!" She replied, glaring at me. "Go back up to the attic where you belong, and play one of those stupid piano pieces of yours!"  
  
"But.what did I do wrong?" I asked, feeling increasingly confused.  
  
"JUST GO!!" her voice boomed. I didn't hesitate. I fled from the room and ran weeping into the arms of my beloved Aunt Giry.  
  
The next few days passed slowly and painfully. I was still upset about me mother, and Aunt Giry, concerned, as usual, tried her hardest to keep my mind off the fateful confrontation. I still wanted to see my parents, perhaps more than ever, for I was still lonely, and my mother's apparent hostility towards me only served to heighten my curiosity.  
  
After about a week, my ninth birthday came around. Aunt Giry, knowing that I still felt unhappy deep down, spoiled me more than usual. She bought me new clothes, toys, books, and a small portable organ. I was very pleased with all my gifts, but all I really wanted that birthday was to go and see my parents, so I could apologise for disturbing them the week before.  
  
To my great surprise, that afternoon my wish almost came true. I was trying out my new organ when Aunt Giry entered, smiling from ear to ear.  
  
"Hello, Erik!" She said, happily. "Your parents have asked me to send for you! You can go down and see them!"  
  
She seemed rather excited, and I didn't hesitate. I straightened my clothes and ran downstairs as fast as I could.  
  
I opened the living room door and shyly looked around the room. My mother and father were sitting in their chairs, and the housekeeper stood behind them, next to that funny little whatnot, full of shells and pincushions. For the first time ever, the housekeeper seemed to be smiling. It was like something out of a dream. "Hello Erik," said my mother.  
  
"Hello," I answered, quietly.  
  
"Many happy returns of the day," she said, smiling.  
  
"Thank you, mother," I replied politely.  
  
"I invited you down here because I want to give you something. I've had it for a while, in case of an emergency, and after my talk with your aunt this morning, I've come to the conclusion that you must be ready for it. But we'll come to that later. Firstly, I would like to ask you something. Has your aunt ever told you that your face looks a bit.funny?"  
  
The question sounded vaguely familiar, and I repressed a shudder.  
  
"No," I whispered, nervously.  
  
"You mean to tell me that no one's ever laughed at you or called you names?"  
  
"No, not really. Why should they do that?"  
  
"Come on, Master Erik! Surely you know how ugly you are?"  
  
"Ug.ugly?"  
  
"Yes! Why, you're deformed! Has no one ever told you that?"  
  
I wondered in bewilderment what "deformed" meant, as I had done on a number of other occasions.  
  
"I.I don't understand."  
  
"You're hideous! You're horrible! You're.you're repulsive! I'm telling you that you're not fit to be seen! But never mind. I have something that you can use to hide your face forever. No one will ever have to set eyes on your face again."  
  
With that, she took a parcel from her lap, and I watched in confusion as she began to unwrap it. Silently, she held up its contents. The object in her hand was clean and new, and it was a dull, grey colour. It had been very roughly made out of papier mache.  
  
I gasped.  
  
The object in her hand was a mask!  
  
Then it hit me, and everything which had happened made sense. That was why I had been hidden away from the outside world. That was why my parents never wanted to see me.  
  
It was all because of my appearance!  
  
Suddenly, I found that I could remember everything. I remembered the housekeeper striking me and calling me hideous.I remembered my mother, my beautiful, angelic mother, calling me ugly and hitting me with that book.bringing it down again, again and again! My dream of getting to know my parents was shattered. All I could see before my eyes was a collection of ugly old furniture. In the midst of it all stood a sneering housekeeper, my father, and my mother, her golden hair tied back in a bun, holding up the mask and smiling.  
  
"Come on," she said. "Try it on!"  
  
"Yes," the old housekeeper chuckled. "I'm sure it will suit you!"  
  
That was the last straw. With a wail I darted towards the door, but the housekeeper grabbed me by the arms and held me before my parents. I struggled violently, but it was all in vain, so I fell to my knees and began to weep.  
  
"Please!" I cried, piteously. "Please don't make me wear it! I'm sorry if I've let you down, I really am!"  
  
My parents remained unmoved, and my mother held up the mask.  
  
At that moment my aunt burst in. She had heard my cries, and she looked at my mother with an expression of pure venom on her face.  
  
"Let him go!" she cried. "The child has done nothing to you!" She ran at the housekeeper and pulled me, weeping and trembling, from her grasp. I clung to my aunt tightly. "How could you?" she screamed. "How could you do this to him?"  
  
"I was only trying to help him," my mother replied. "Have you seen his poor face?"  
  
"Yes, I have seen his poor face," said Aunt Giry. "And I hope to see it many times in the future, without that horrid thing hiding it!"  
  
"Nonsense!" my mother snapped back. "He's not fit to be seen!"  
  
I could not understand why my face should be the cause of such conflict. All I could manage was a feeble: "Please.please stop arguing."  
  
My mother glared at me. "Then end the argument!" she said. "Put on the mask!"  
  
"No!" I cried, finding enough courage within myself to rebel against this strange, harsh request. "I won't!"  
  
"Very well then. Get him!"  
  
Her servants lunged towards me, but I was too quick for them. I wriggled out from my aunt's protective grasp, flung open the door, and made a dash up the staircase to my room. Unfortunately, the servants caught up with me, and they knocked me onto my bed. Two of them fell on me, along with that horrid housekeeper.  
  
I tried in vain to wriggle out from beneath their grasp, but they held me down fast by the arms. Then I gave up, and let them do it. I hadn't a fight left in me, and my mother had the mask. 


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note: Thanks again for your reviews! In this chapter (another sad one, I'm afraid) Erik learns the truth about his face.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera. The characters in this story are mainly based on the characters from the original novel and the musical.  
  
ANTOINETTE GIRY  
  
I rushed up the attic staircase as soon as I managed to free myself from the commotion downstairs. The door of the attic bedroom was closed, so I knocked loudly. When there was no answer, I entered the room and found Erik.  
  
He was lying on his bed, with his face buried deep in his pillow.  
  
"Erik." There was no reply. "Erik, are you all right?"  
  
My only answer was a little sob. I walked slowly over to him and laid a hand on his small, trembling shoulder. He turned to face me, and I suffered a silent shock. His entire face had been covered with that horrible grey mask, with small holes for the eyes and tiny little holes to allow him to breathe. There was no hole for his mouth. I was furious; all this time he had been happy and contented. I had grown used to seeing that cheerful little disfigured face looking up at me every time I entered the room. But now he was imprisoned, forbidden to show his face to anyone, forbidden to smile that little crooked smile! Why, oh why had they done this to him? He was just a poor little boy!  
  
He could no longer show his expressions. I could imagine how the face would look behind the mask, but the only parts I could see were his eyes, which told me enough. They seemed sad, troubled, and strangely angry. I untied the knot which held the mask in place, and a hot, tragic, tearstained little face immediately buried itself into my gown.  
  
"Hush!" I crooned, gently massaging his shoulders. "Don't cry! I still love you, even if they don't! I love you even though you're a bit different!"  
  
He looked up. "A bit different?"  
  
"Yes. No! I mean.different in personality. You're nicer than them."  
  
He looked at me uncertainly, those strange, wise eyes burning into mine. Oh God, he didn't believe me! What should I tell him?  
  
"Auntie, why did they do this to me? Am I so repulsive to look at?"  
  
I remained silent.  
  
"Tell me Auntie. Please."  
  
I could no longer contain myself.  
  
"Oh, Erik!" I blurted, starting to cry myself. "I'm sorry Erik. I'm so sorry! I should have told you before, shouldn't I?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Erik, there's something a bit different about your face. Don't worry, it won't hurt you or anything, but - Oh, I'm sorry, my darling!"  
  
"Why? What is it? What's wrong with it?"  
  
Those poor, desperate eyes were fixed on me! What should I say? What should I tell him? I swallowed hard, and came out with the most obvious, insensitive thing I could.  
  
"Your face is deformed, Erik."  
  
"What do you mean?" he asked, becoming increasingly agitated. "I don't know what that word means!"  
  
I paused. How could you explain the word "deformed," anyway?  
  
"It's.it's different from everyone else's.since birth. It's sort of.not quite normal, Erik."  
  
He looked at me questioningly. "I remember you once told me that it meant I was different. I don't quite understand -"  
  
"Erik, feel your face."  
  
He reached up uncertainly and pulled his hand away almost immediately.  
  
"What does it feel like?"  
  
"One side's alright," he said quietly. "But the other side - oh, I don't know - it's sort of rough and bumpy -"  
  
"Would you like to see yourself, Erik?"  
  
"See myself? What do you mean?"  
  
"Look in the mirror."  
  
"What's a mirror?"  
  
"Here, let me show you." I went into my room, picked up a small hand mirror that was lying on my bedside table, and returned to Erik, placing the mirror face down on the bed beside him.  
  
"Now, Erik. When you lift the mirror up, you will see your face. Don't be frightened. I'm here, and you can scream, cry, shout or throw a tantrum and I won't care."  
  
He looked up at me, his eyes wide with terror.  
  
"Is it really that bad?" "No! Of course not! But you know what I mean."  
  
Erik took the mirror in his small, shaking hands, closed his eyes, and turned it around. His eyes opened and I saw him jump. He didn't shout or scream, but he looked extremely confused and rather frightened. He put his head on one side, and the image in the mirror put its head on one side. He tried to smile his crooked smile, and the image in the mirror did likewise. He moved his head forwards, backwards, sideways, and the image in the mirror mimicked his movements. He whispered his name; "I am Erik" and his reflection did the same. Then he gave a terrible cry of understanding and slammed the mirror back down on the bed.  
  
And then there were tears, as he struggled to fully understand the situation he was in.  
  
"Now Erik."  
  
He sat up, and attempted to dry his eyes. "So, that's me, then?"  
  
"Yes Erik," I said quietly. "That's you."  
  
"But I don't understand. Why?"  
  
"We don't know Erik. It's just one of those things," I replied, remembering the doctor's "diagnosis."  
  
"But. my mother's very pretty, so why am I like this?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Aunt Giry?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"What can I do about it?"  
  
There was a pause. What I was about to say would hurt him, but I knew that I could not withhold the truth from him any longer.  
  
"I'm sorry, Erik, but you can't do anything about it."  
  
"Nothing?"  
  
"No. I'm afraid not."  
  
"Is this why my parents don't love me?"  
  
"It's why they won't look after you, yes."  
  
"Do you still love me?"  
  
"Of course!" I put my arms around his cold, shaking body and held him tightly. There was a pause before he spoke again.  
  
"This is all my own fault, isn't it?"  
  
"No, of course not! Why do you say that?"  
  
"Because I'm a monster and a freak."  
  
"Oh, Erik, that isn't true."  
  
"It's been kept from me all my life!" he said, starting to cry again. "All this time I've been wondering why my parents don't want me. All this time I've been wondering why I'm never allowed outside. Why, I can't even go to school!"  
  
And he collapsed onto his quilt, sobbing violently. I tried my hardest to comfort him.  
  
"Hush now. It's not the end of the world! You're still number one in my book, even though you're slightly different! I still love you! After all, look how talented you are!"  
  
"But I've caused all this trouble!"  
  
"No, you haven't. It wasn't your fault. It was mine, and your mother's."  
  
He dried his eyes and sat up again.  
  
"Aunt Giry, I want to know the truth. I want to know exactly what happened when I was born. I don't care if it's bad. It can't be any worse than what has just happened. Please tell me."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Then you're a brave child. Come over here, Erik, and I'll tell you all about it."  
  
I took him in my arms again, thinking that he would need comforting after I had told him what I had to say.  
  
"I remember your birth well. After all, I was there. Your father was waiting in the drawing room. Oh, the shouts and exclamations that went up when you were born! I will not repeat the things they said, but I recall that the servants present were all rather superstitious. In the hubbub that followed your birth, I didn't say a word. I just stood in the corner. I was not scared of you, like the servants seemed to be, and I was shocked at the way they were passing you from one to the other like some sort of object which displeased them.  
  
'"If you don't stop, I'll go mad!" I suddenly exclaimed, snatching you from the housekeeper's arms. "How could you treat him like that? He's just a child! The poor little thing can't help his looks!"'  
  
"It was then that I realised you were not moving or breathing. The servants all thought you were dead, but I refused to believe it. I took you away from your mother and into the room opposite, where I managed to revive you by rubbing your back. But you were still very weak, small and underweight. I took you back to your mother, but she, well - "  
  
At this point I broke off, and struggled to hide the tears which were beginning to fall steadily from my eyes.  
  
"Oh, Erik, do I have to tell you this? I know I'm upsetting you."  
  
"No," he sniffed. "Please go on."  
  
"Well, your mother didn't really want to look after you. She wanted you to be raised apart from the rest of her family, you see. As for your father, well, as soon as you were born he went back to his job as a mason. I think he was in a bit of a temper. I know that he wanted a son to whom he could teach his craft, but, because you were deformed, he would have nothing to do with you. Your mother insisted upon you being kept inside, away from the rest of society. You were placed in the care of her little maid, but I found you two days later starving in a box beside her bed. She had tried to look after you, there was no doubt about that, but she was only fifteen and didn't really know how. So I took you back to your mother and, feeling rather attached to you by this time, I asked her if I could look after you. She said no, and told me to give you to the housekeeper. She was very unkind to you, I don't know if you remember, but she didn't want anything to do with you either.  
  
"When you were about four I found you crying in your room. She had just told you off for going exploring downstairs. I asked your mother once again if I could look after you. She agreed, and you've been in my care ever since.  
  
"However, there were conditions. She said that I was allowed to show you as much affection as I wanted, but never, under any circumstances, let you see her.  
  
"I tried my best to keep my side of the bargain, Erik, for your sake if nothing else. But, as you got older, I knew that you would want to meet your family. And I was right. I'm sorry, Erik. I tried to persuade your mother to see you and give you some attention, and all you got was a mask placed over your head. I really am sorry!"  
  
"It wasn't your fault," he wept, resting his small, tearstained face against my shoulder. "What else could you have done?"  
  
"I could have persuaded your mother to let you live a normal life," I replied, tearfully. "I should have put my foot down earlier, but I left it too late, and now you're the one who's suffering."  
  
"You couldn't help it," he said. "All you were trying to do was look after me."  
  
I managed a smile. "Erik, you're a kind, brave young man," I said, proudly. "And I love you, even if they don't. Now, why don't we put that awful mask away for good?"  
  
"No," he said. "I can't. Anyway, what's the point? All people are going to do is stare at me and laugh at me if I don't wear it. It's like I said before. I'm a freak!"  
  
"Oh, please don't start that again! I promise no one will laugh at you, and if they do, they'll have me to contend with!"  
  
There was a long pause, and suddenly I noticed the soft, brown thing resting on his head.  
  
"Oh, Erik, you're far too young to wear a wig!" I said, pulling it from his head. I had been so bothered about the mask that I hadn't even noticed he had a wig on!  
  
"There now," I said, gently. "That's better. Now, why don't you try and get some sleep? You must be worn out!"  
  
"Alright, Aunt Giry," he said, making a brave effort to smile. "I'll see you in the morning."  
  
"Good boy, Erik," I said, gently. "I'll sleep in the room next to yours tonight. Don't hesitate to come in if you need me."  
  
"Thank you, Auntie. Goodnight."  
  
"Goodnight," I replied.  
  
ERIK  
  
When my aunt had gone, I lay awake for a while, looking at my face in the small hand mirror she had given me. I had never seen my face before, and I was feeling extremely confused. I had certainly never had the opportunity to study my face in a mirror before, but today was different. Now I knew the truth.  
  
I had thought before that dreadful revelation was made to me that people never looked upon their own faces. Before the incident with the mask I had never really given my appearance a second thought. I merely presumed that I had a face like those of the doctor, Aunt Giry and the housekeeper.  
  
I gazed intently at my reflection, and a poor, pale, solemn little face stared back at me. The right side of my face was covered with deep, brown scars. There was a particularly nasty gash on the side of my head, where part of my skull was visible. My head was almost completely bald, with just a few sparse tufts of auburn hair hanging limply over the back. In the centre of my face was a crooked little piece of flesh: my nose. My lips were twisted and swollen at one side, and the space between my mouth and nose was badly scarred. Finally, looking back at me with fascination, was a pair of large, sad eyes, of the strangest shade of brown I had ever seen. They were almost golden. I sighed deeply. This was what I looked like. This was me. I knew that I was stuck with this deformity for the rest of my life. There was nothing I could do about it.  
  
I suddenly felt extremely frightened and alone. I was deformed and there was no one else who looked like me. I was all alone in the world. One day I would have to venture outside and live my own life, and people would stare at me and laugh at me. The thought left me petrified.  
  
Then I remembered Aunt Giry. She would cheer me up. She would protect me. I climbed out of bed and crept along the dark passage to the room next door, and pushed the door open. Aunt Giry had obviously heard me and had lit a candle.  
  
"Whatever's the matter, Erik?" she asked.  
  
"Auntie." I sobbed. "I'm frightened. I don't like looking like this. It scares me."  
  
"Never mind, Erik," she said, gently. "You come here and lie down next to me. There's nothing to be afraid of, I promise. I'll look after you. You'll feel better in the morning."  
  
I felt much better now I was with Aunt Giry. I lay down beneath the covers and snuggled up to her, almost immediately falling asleep in her arms. 


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Thank you for all the reviews, and special thanks to my regular reviewers, Midasgirl and Deidre of the Sorrows. I'm sorry I haven't updated for a while. One word will provide an adequate explanation - EXAMS!  
  
This chapter takes place the morning after Erik takes Christine down to his lair. This is the first chapter from the point of view of Erik as the Phantom, so I hope I have done him justice. Once again, any comments or criticisms will be very welcome. Enjoy!  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera. Unfortunately.  
  
ERIK. 1881  
  
My eyes flickered open just in time to see the sunlight filtering through the gap in the curtains. I stretched lazily and yawned. It was Sunday.but we weren't planning on going to church. No.this was the day we enjoyed a long sleep-in, curled up together in our soft canopied bed. I snuggled up to her and she stirred sleepily, putting out a hand in order to stroke my face. I sighed contentedly and smiled. We had been looking forward to this day all week - we had made careful plans. That afternoon we were going for a stroll in the park. This would be followed by an intimate candlelit dinner. And then she would sit on the sofa in the music room while I played our grand piano and we sang a duet from our favourite opera. And then we would go upstairs together - and then - and then -  
  
My eyes flew open and I stared at my surroundings in bewilderment. Then I realised where I was, and I suddenly felt like crying. I was not the ideal husband. I was not even a normal man. And I had not woken to greet the sun at the window of a quaint apartment. I was in a cold dark cellar beneath the Paris Opera House, surrounded by dripping white candles. I was, at present, lying sprawled over the bench of my huge pipe organ, my head resting on the keyboard, quill in one hand, sheet music in the other. I blinked in surprise. How on earth had I got here? And then it dawned on me.  
  
Christine!  
  
I leapt up from the bench in horror, wincing at the pain in my back that had evidently been caused by my uncomfortable position. How had I managed to fall asleep? What if Christine had woken up?!  
  
I dashed over to the door that led to the guest bedroom, and, fearing the worst, I quietly pushed it open. I heaved a sigh of relief as I beheld Christine lying on the bed where I had placed her, covered by the silk sheets.  
  
I crept slowly across the room to stand beside her. Her long brown hair lay spread across the pillows, and her face was relaxed with sleep. I must have stood there for a good ten minutes, watching her sleep and listening to her soft breathing.  
  
Oh Christine. You are so beautiful.  
  
I was seized by a sudden desire to wake her. I desperately wanted to tell her that I loved her, that last night had been the best night of my life. The pain of waking up to find myself in this cold, dismal dungeon vanished immediately. Looking down on Christine now, I suddenly felt unbelievably warm and happy. Maybe I couldn't have my dream in its entirety, maybe I would never again wake to see the sun, but Christine was here with me, and that, I realised, was all that mattered.  
  
I crept out of the room and closed the door behind me. I desperately wanted to remain by her side, but I knew that was impossible. Hardly the behaviour of a gentleman, to watch a lady as she slept! Anyway, I needed to make myself look presentable for when she awoke.  
  
I went into my bedroom and pulled the dust cover away from my full length mirror. I had always hated looking in mirrors, but my infatuation with Christine had caused me to become far more concerned with my overall appearance. I gazed into the mirror and sighed, suddenly doubtful. What if Christine decided that she didn't want me when I appeared to her without the darkness to hide my faults? While living alone beneath the Opera House, with no taunts, laughter or violence to remind me of my deformity, there had been times when I had almost managed to convince myself that I was a normal man. I would steal the most beautiful clothes from the theatre's wardrobe, and stalk the night time corridors wearing full evening dress, pretending that I was any other high-society gentleman on a visit to the Opera.  
  
Christine had inadvertently put an end to my illusions. As I looked in the mirror now I saw a tall, rather threatening figure dressed in black. My right leg was lame and my body was thin beneath my evening suit. This hadn't always been the case. Four months ago I had been quite plump, my stomach round beneath my starched shirt, hardly the emaciated Opera Ghost of rumour! But that was before I had seen Christine, before the sleepless nights and missed meals, before the relentless dreaming and scheming. I suppose my weight loss was an early indication that I felt more for Christine than simply a wish to protect and teach her.  
  
I smoothed down my suit and turned to look at myself from the side. I tried to persuade myself that, despite my face, Christine might still find me physically attractive in some ways. After all, I'm certainly imposing, and the new evening suit was very becoming.  
  
But, in reality, I knew that I was deceiving myself. I am ugly. Even with my mask and wig in place I am ugly. That was why I dressed myself in the finest clothes I could get my hands on: to combat my natural ugliness. My suit is always perfect, there's never a hair out of place on my wig, but I know that I cannot possibly hope to disguise my faults.  
  
Mme. Giry knows it too. She says I'm being very foolish - perhaps I am. I had tried in vain to hide my infatuation from her, but she seemed to be everywhere. No matter how hard I try, I cannot escape from her. She wouldn't turn me in, I know she wouldn't, even though it would be so easy for her. Instead she lurks in the shadows, watching my every move in much the same way as I watch Christine. She thinks she knows all my secrets, she thinks that I am afraid of her.  
  
But it is she who should be afraid.  
  
Having said that, and although her meddling annoys me, I could never physically hurt her. After all, I once loved her, and I like to think that the feeling was mutual. I trusted her completely; she was the light of my childhood, until -  
  
But I won't think of that now. It has been too long, we have both changed so much since then. I cannot forgive, but I can at least try to forget.  
  
Instead I will remember our confrontation over Christine. I had been certain that she did not know about my interest in her young pupil. I made a special effort to go about my business as normal, giving her my letters to pass on to the managers. On the rare occasions that we did meet backstage, I remained cold and aloof, taking care not to betray my feelings with a careless word or nervous twitch.  
  
But oh, Mme. Giry, how I underestimated you! You knew me too well, despite my cloak of secrecy! You noticed that I was losing weight, that I was becoming paler and more wild-eyed, you noticed my limp become more pronounced, and my habits become more erratic. You even knew that I was teaching Christine, didn't you?  
  
She caught me in the ballet room. It was late one Friday evening, and she had just finished instructing the dancers as they rehearsed for 'Hannibal.' Back then, Christine had still been a member of the chorus, and I would go along to the rehearsals to watch her. She wasn't much of a dancer, and occasionally I would wince at her efforts. She tried so hard, bless her, but she never had the agility or the coordination. But I digress.  
  
Mme. Giry had turned off the lights, and I was certain she had departed. I had been watching the rehearsal from behind a two-way mirror, and now I pushed it open and stepped cautiously into the room, closing it soundlessly behind me. I crossed the floor, making no sound in walking, and opened the door. And then I gave a start.  
  
A dark figure was standing behind the door, blocking my path down the passage. Our eyes met, her hawk-like gaze seeming to burn a hole in my brain. I was shaken; I felt as though she had caught me in the act of committing some heinous crime. It took me a second to regain my composure, and I bowed stiffly in acknowledgement.  
  
'Madame,' I said icily, taking care not to look her in the eye. Then I swept past her and stalked down the corridor.  
  
'It will never work, Erik.' I stopped in my tracks. Her voice was sad and strangely tender. 'You know it will never work.'  
  
I whirled around to face her. 'Excuse me, Madame, but I have no idea what you're talking about.'  
  
'You know perfectly well what I'm talking about, Monsieur le Fantome,' she replied, taking a step towards me. 'You would not stand and watch an entire rehearsal for no reason whatsoever.'  
  
I was visibly shaken. 'How - how did you know I was there?'  
  
'I saw you go in. I saw a dark shape out of the corner of my eye, then I heard the mirror turn.'  
  
Damn. I really was becoming careless.  
  
'You are becoming careless, M. le Fantome,' she said, echoing my thoughts. I repressed a shudder. All dressed in black, with heavy makeup applied to her lips and around her eyes, she looked almost sinister. 'I have noticed that you seem rather preoccupied of late,' she continued.  
  
I was getting angry. 'Oh, you have, have you? Then please tell me why I am preoccupied, because I would love to know.'  
  
Mme. Giry's face was expressionless. 'Don't play the innocent with me, Erik! I know you've been stalking Christine Daae!'  
  
That came as a shock. I must have blushed or trembled because, before I had a chance to protest, she leaned forward and said 'Yes, I knew it.'  
  
I refused to be intimidated. Drawing myself up to my full height, I looked her straight in the eye.  
  
'I am not stalking her,' I said, putting on my most innocent, amiable tone. 'I am simply helping a girl whom I know is talented to fulfil her dreams. What's wrong with that?'  
  
'No, you're stalking her! You watch her from behind the mirror in her dressing room - Yes, I know all your clever tricks, Erik! - She thinks you're her Angel of Music! She's told me all about you, the angelic singing voice descending magically from the heavens, the feelings of ecstasy. Angel of Music, indeed! You are not helping her, you are taking advantage of a vulnerable, damaged, grief-stricken young girl. YOU ARE STALKING HER!'  
  
If she had been someone else, I would have lashed out at her then - taken her by the neck and shown her how dangerous I really was, but I managed to control myself. Instead, I spoke to her in that deceptively calm voice which I often use when, deep inside, I am simmering with rage.  
  
'Oh yes? And why am I stalking her? I must have a reason, surely? Or am I just evil, a 'motiveless malignity'? Is that what you're suggesting?'  
  
Mme. Giry sighed and smiled wistfully. 'You're not evil, Erik. You are damaged and bitter and corrupted, but not evil.' She paused, and looked directly into my eyes. 'It's perfectly obvious, even to me. You are in love.'  
  
I suddenly felt faint. I stumbled and put my hand against the wall to prevent myself from falling. In love? I wasn't in love, was I? No, I couldn't be! It was just a silly infatuation, a normal feeling of lust towards a pretty young girl. I did not love Christine. Why, the very idea was absurd!  
  
All of a sudden I began to laugh - rumbling, uncontrollable laughter which brought sweat to my brow and tears to my cheeks. The very thought of the Phantom of the Opera being in love was so ludicrous, so downright theatrical, that I was in hysterics for several long, embarrassing minutes. Madame Giry watched my display in silence.  
  
At last I managed to recover my dignity, and I wiped the tears from my eyes. Now that I had stopped laughing, a terrible feeling of emptiness had come to replace my mirth, and I suddenly had the most uncomfortable feeling that I was going to cry. I swallowed the tears, and turned to face the ballet mistress.  
  
'I - I am not in love,' I said, but my voice lacked conviction. 'What on Earth gave you that idea? It's just a silly infatuation.'  
  
Mme. Giry smiled again. 'You are in love, M. le Fantome,' she said gently. 'It's nothing to be ashamed of. I know because you would not be helping Christine if you did not feel anything for her. You could have passed on your knowledge to anyone. Why her? What's so special about her?'  
  
I drew myself up. 'My Christine has a wonderful voice, that's why!'  
  
'Yes, you have taught her well, but there's more to it than that. You're in love with her. I can tell by your appearance. You're paler, and you've lost weight. You look more like Joseph Buquet's description every time I see you! When did you last eat a proper meal?'  
  
She was scanning my torso with concerned eyes, and I wrapped my cloak around myself in embarrassment.  
  
'Do not pretend that you care about my welfare,' I said, coldly. 'I can look after myself, and my feelings for Christine are no concern of yours.'  
  
I turned to leave, but she caught hold of my cloak. 'This has to stop, Erik.'  
  
'Excuse me, Madame. I do not have time for this.'  
  
'Nonsense! You have all the time in the world!' She leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially in my ear. 'This has to stop. You can't deceive Christine forever. One day she will not need her Angel anymore. What will you do then? You know you cannot keep her. Any relationship you try to forge with her will end in tears. Please, Erik. Let her have her freedom. End it here.'  
  
This hurt me, and I bit my lip to prevent myself from weeping. I did not love Christine, I had established that, but I could not let her go.  
  
'Excuse me, Madame,' I repeated, in a muffled voice. She let go of my cloak and I walked down the passage with as much dignity as I could muster.  
  
'Erik!' I stopped abruptly, but did not turn around. 'I shall be watching you. Remember that.'  
  
Later that night, lying on the over-stuffed mattress which served as my bed, I tried to sleep. I was unusually hot and uncomfortable, thrashing violently from side to side. Mme. Giry's words haunted me:  
  
'You are stalking her. You are in love. End it here. You are stalking her' - I felt a twinge of guilt - 'You are in love. YOU ARE IN LOVE!'  
  
Occasionally I would burst out laughing. The Phantom could not feel love. I had established that long ago. The Phantom enjoyed his solitary existence. He did not need anyone.  
  
But maybe Erik did.  
  
And I realised then that Christine had reawakened something within me which I had thought was long since dead. The old flame of human emotion had been reignited, and it refused to be extinguished. I told myself that I was being foolish, that I was too ugly and too old to fall in love. I was thirty-four, for Heaven's sake!  
  
I repeated the words, over and over again in the darkness, like an incantation which would protect me: 'I am not in love. I am not in love. I am not in love.'  
  
When I finally did find sleep, I dreamed of her voice, her face, her soft arms around my neck. And most of all, I dreamed of the sunrise.  
  
------(------(@  
  
Awaking from my reverie, I gazed into the mirror once again. Maybe Mme. Giry was right. Maybe I should have ended it that night in the ballet room. But Christine was here with me now, and I knew there was no way back.  
  
I quickly went over to the wash basin and performed my toilet. Then I changed into a new set of evening clothes and ran a damp comb through the wig. As an afterthought, I donned a heavily embroidered kimono and matching hat. The image in the mirror looked a little absurd, but at least I would appear less threatening. The mask seemed all right, but I took the time to wipe it with a cloth. When Christine finally awoke, I wanted her to see me at my most presentable.  
  
Author's Note: Please review! The phrase 'motiveless malignity' is how Coleridge described Shakespeare's Iago in 'Othello.' I just thought I'd better mention that. I hope it doesn't look out of place. 


	7. Chapter 7

I've finally updated! Sorry it took me so long. Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter, especially to M. Angelowe: it was your review that stopped me from being lazy and encouraged me to update.  
  
In this chapter, young Erik meets his father. Please review! Oh, and if you do, please let me know what you thought of my grown-up Erik in the last chapter. I'd be interested to know what you all thought of my interpretation of his character.  
  
Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera.  
  
Erik. 1856.  
  
Biting my lip thoughtfully, I stared into the eyes of the creature in the mirror. They were extraordinary eyes, I knew that now. Extraordinary eyes glinting like jewels in the strange, asymmetrical lump of flesh and bone that was my head.  
  
Two months had passed since I had learned the Truth, and I had spent this time shut away (as ever) in my attic bedroom, with only my aunt and my music for company. Looking back, I find it hard to remember what my feelings were during this strange, confusing time. I suppose there must have been some occasions when I felt sad, bewildered and angry, but most of the time I simply felt numb. It was a strange feeling, and it was certainly not in keeping with my usually emotional, passionate character. Over the years, I have frequently wondered what could have caused me to become so detached and listless. I can only conclude that it was down to shock, but perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps I instinctively withdrew into myself because I saw this as my one defence against the rest of the world. I had, after all, been hurt deeply.  
  
There were moments when I did feel pain and confusion, of course. These moments usually came at night, long after my aunt had gone to bed. I would lie wide awake in the darkness, my whole body throbbing with an emotional pain which was almost physical. I would shut my eyes tightly and concentrate hard, trying to find out where this pain was coming from, but its source always alluded me. I knew I was upset about my face, but it went deeper than that. When I looked into the mirror for the first time, something inside me changed. I was still an innocent, I knew nothing of the world beyond those four walls, and yet I felt as though a part of me had somehow matured. I suppose my feelings were similar to those experienced in adolescence, when one is experiencing awkward changes in both body and mind. It was that sort of confusion. In my mind I had always been faceless, and now I had a face. I knew who- WHAT-I was, and I could feel a future trying to land on me.  
  
And it was not the sort of future I wanted.  
  
I had endured two whole months of this torture. There had to be some way to end it.  
  
The sound of the door opening and closing broke into my thoughts. I looked up to see that my aunt had entered the room.  
  
"Erik, I need to talk to you," she said, in a breathless, excited voice. I stared at her curiously.  
  
"Is something wrong, Aunt Giry?"  
  
My aunt sat down next to me on the bed.  
  
"It's your father, Erik. He wants to see you in the library immediately."  
  
I gazed at her in disbelief. "Why on Earth should he want to see me? He's never even spoken to me before."  
  
Aunt Giry shook her head in bewilderment. "I'm not sure. He came into the library a few minutes ago, while I was getting a book down for you about cathedrals. He looked at me in surprise, and asked if I'd acquired an interest in architecture. I said no, but I told him that you'd been interested in it for a long time. He looked interested, and asked me to bring you down to see him."  
  
"I'll go down and see him straight away." I paused for a moment. "Will my mother be there?"  
  
"No. I understand she has gone to Rouen for a few days. But I think you should take that horrid mask, just in case. I'm sorry."  
  
I gave a nod of understanding and got down on my hands and knees, pulling an old wooden chest out from underneath my bed. I opened the chest and took out my mask and wig, which I had wrapped carefully in some old scraps of material.  
  
I had not worn my mask since the day I had learned the Truth. My aunt had wanted to get rid of it, but I had insisted on keeping it. I'm not sure why. Some instinct must have told me that I would need it again someday. I hated that mask with a passion, but I knew my poor Aunt Giry would be made to suffer if she ever disposed of it without my parents' permission. And it wasn't as though I had to look at it when it was under my bed.  
  
Aunt Giry helped me put on the mask and wig, and then we began our descent towards the library. I was very nervous. What could my father possibly want to speak to me about?  
  
We paused in front of a heavy wooden door. My aunt turned to look at me.  
  
"Remember to be polite and call him 'sir,' and don't speak unless you are spoken to. You'll be fine. I'll wait for you out here."  
  
She knocked on the door, and a deep male voice said "Come in." I stepped nervously into the room.  
  
My father was seated in an armchair, reading a book. He was a large man with dark hair and a very handsome complexion. Despite his relaxed posture, I could already see that he was a strong and powerful gentleman, with a touch of real grace and nobility about him. He looked up as I entered.  
  
"Ahh. Young Erik," he said. I continued to slouch in the doorway, too nervous to reply.  
  
"Well? Can't you speak either?" It was the word 'either' which made me begin to fret.  
  
"Why did you want to see me, sir?" I asked timidly. My father put his book down and sprang to his feet.  
  
"For heaven's sake, boy! Stand straight and look me in the eye when you're addressing me! Did Mlle. Giry not teach you any manners? Come into the light and take off your mask. I want to see you properly.'  
  
I stepped forward, removing the mask with shaking fingers. My father stared at me with critical eyes.  
  
'Yes,' he said, after a moment's contemplation. 'I think the mask is going to be a necessity. And you're rather too small and thin - a bit of work is in order to strengthen those puny little muscles - yes, we'll make a big, strong lad out of you yet."  
  
I felt terribly inadequate.  
  
"What do you want to talk to me about, sir?"  
  
"I want to discuss your future, my boy." He replied, rather theatrically. I shifted uneasily.  
  
"What do you mean, 'my future'? You're not going to send me away, are you?"  
  
My father suddenly laughed. The sound was warm, loud and rumbling. I suppose under other circumstances it would have been highly infectious.  
  
"No! Of course not! Not now that we've found a use for you!" He paused, and looked at me a little more gently. "Look, I'm sorry about the incident with the mask. Your mother got a bit carried away. She's a very explosive woman, your mother. But you have to understand that it's for the best, if you want to be accepted into the world, that is. Please sit down."  
  
I did as he asked, and he sat down in the armchair opposite me.  
  
"Your mother tells me that Mlle. Giry's told you everything about your past." He resumed, in an almost cautious tone of voice. "And it's true, I did leave in a bit of a temper when you were born. You see, all I saw before me was a disfigured little thing who would never be able to inherit my business. I'm sorry."  
  
"What for?" I asked. He did not seem to notice the hint of sarcasm in my voice.  
  
"For not giving you a chance in life," he replied. "I ignored you from the moment you were born. But now Mlle. Giry's told me that you're extremely clever. Ugly, but very clever. I'm willing to give you a chance. I'd like to take you to see one of my construction sites. I would put you under the supervision of some workers who would teach you my craft. A fine opportunity for an unfortunate child such as yourself." He paused. "Well, what do you have to say?"  
  
I stared at him in furious disbelief. My aunt had never compared me to other children before, but this man, who didn't even know me, seemed to be doing it all the time. I felt as though every inch of my body had come under his criticism, as if he was measuring each of my 'puny little muscles' against how much work I could do for him in his mason's yard. In this moment of blind anger I completely forgot my manners. I drew myself up and shouted at him.  
  
"So! You wouldn't have given me a chance if my aunt hadn't told you I was clever! Am I right? Yes, of course I am! To you I'm just a little deformed runt who can now be used to help you in your workshop! You don't really want to teach me your craft! You're ashamed of me!"  
  
My father looked at me in shocked surprise. "Mlle. Giry didn't say that you were rude." He said.  
  
I suddenly felt very stupid. This was my chance to make my parents proud of me, and here I was, throwing it all away. Yes, I would accept my father's offer. I would learn to be a mason, and I would be extremely good at it. In fact, I would be the best mason ever! I would make them proud of me! I'd show them!  
  
"I'm sorry, Father," I said. "I don't know what came over me. I want to learn whatever you're prepared to teach me. I'll do whatever you say."  
  
My father smiled. "Good," he said. "We'll start tomorrow.'  
  
* * *  
  
The following day I travelled to Rouen with my father. This was my first trip outside the house, at the age of nine, and I cannot describe how nervous I was. Looking back, I know that I could not have been frightened, because I did not know there was anything to fear. Oh, I knew that there must be some rather nasty people in the world beyond those four walls, who would no doubt mock my appearance, but at the time I was simply too excited to care. And my father assured me that I would be quite safe.  
  
My aunt, however, was harder to convince. I had never been separated from her before, with the exception of those rare days which she had spent at the Opera House. I suppose she was concerned about handing responsibility for me over to my father, who had never spent any time with me before. But she could not deny an excited child such an opportunity, and she was eventually persuaded to let me go.  
  
The most exciting, nerve-wracking moment was when my father opened the front door. A blast of cold air struck me in the face and made me flinch, and then I gazed with wonder upon the landscape of Normandy spread out before me. I was taken aback by the sheer beauty of it all: the dense and mysterious blanket of the Foret de Roumare to one side, the grassy pastures of our estate, and the tiny village of Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville nestled snugly in the valley below. From our vantage point on the driveway I could make out the spire of the abbey and several large half-timbered houses, but nothing more. And beyond that, nothing but fields stretched out as far as the eye could see. Fields, and then the distant horizon.  
  
Standing there, on the threshold of the only world I had ever known, I could not imagine anything more beautiful. Until the ride in the carriage, of course, which took us through more lovely little villages, copses and fields, and finally to the bustle and excitement of the city of Rouen.  
  
The coach came to a standstill outside a large, half-finished, red-brick building which contrasted sharply with the much older, half-timbered buildings on either side. I followed my father under an archway to one side of the incomplete house, and we emerged in what I suppose was going to be the property's stable yard. Some men were at work building a wall on one side. They all stopped and looked at me as I passed, and I felt a little uncomfortable. My father paused for a moment.  
  
"I just have to go inside for a minute and sort something out," he said, addressing me. "You wait here until I come back"  
  
I nodded, and watched my father go into the house. I waited patiently, thinking about what a good mason I was going to be. Suddenly, a loud cry broke into my thoughts.  
  
"You there!" Someone shouted. "You there with the mask!"  
  
I turned around, only to see a large man standing behind me.  
  
"Why are you wearing that ugly mask?" he asked. I made no reply.  
  
"Come on, take it off!"  
  
"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't," I said, in a polite yet nervous voice. The man bent over and brought his face level with my own.  
  
"Oh! What do we have here, then? A little rich boy?" He turned to look at his colleagues. "Did you here that, lads? 'I'm sorry, sir, I can't!'" The man laughed, and several other men laughed with him.  
  
The man turned back to face me. "Your airs and graces don't fool me!" he said, grinning. "There's something wrong with your face, isn't there?"  
  
I trembled. "There's nothing wrong with my face, sir," I stammered.  
  
"Oh, rubbish! Did you hear that? There's nothing wrong with his face! Well, we'll soon find out!"  
  
I tried to escape, but two other men caught me by the arms, and my tormentor finally succeeded in ripping the mask from my face.  
  
The men in the yard thought it was hilarious. "Oh, there's nothing wrong with your face, is there, lad?" Someone laughed. "Perfectly formed, I'd say. Very handsome."  
  
I hung my head in shame. "Please let me go," I begged, in a frightened little voice. "Please let me go home."  
  
"Aww. Did you here that? The poor little monster wants to go home! Should we let him go, lads, or should we keep him here and talk to him a while longer?"  
  
This vote, of course, was unanimous. They were enjoying themselves, and they were not in any hurry to let me go. Instead they held onto me, calling me names.  
  
"Look at that lovely face of his," someone chuckled. "Such exquisite markings! I could make my wife a nice pair of gloves out of that!" He stepped forward and gave my deformed flesh a hard pinch. I gave a yelp.  
  
"Aww, did it hurt?" Someone else jeered, twisting my small, crooked nose. "Who's your father, anyway? I don't half feel sorry for him. Why, if my son looked anything like you, he would be working for a living in a freak show by now!"  
  
I was too frightened to even begin to contemplate what a freak show was. Totally unequipped to deal with the situation in which I now found myself, I had given up trying to fight back, and I remained standing against the wall.  
  
"I'm Phillippe Claudin's son, sir," I replied, warily.  
  
There was a delighted peal of laughter. "You're the boss's son? We'll have a good laugh at him when he comes back, won't we, lads?"  
  
"Leave my father alone!" I said. I tried to sound frightening, but my voice came out as a soft whimper.  
  
"Oh, I'm sooo scared!" said the man, faking a shudder. "But I'm sorry, Ugly, he's next!"  
  
I gave up completely. I just stood there, letting them call me names. All their insults hit their marks, and I smarted under their attacks. There was no hope of escape. They were holding onto me so tightly.  
  
"Monster!"  
  
"Freak!"  
  
"Gargoyle!"  
  
"Vampire!"  
  
These are just a fraction of the names which I was called. I can't remember how long I stood there. I had lost all sense of time.  
  
Suddenly I heard another voice. A voice which seemed to rise from the depths of my subconscious: "They're right," said the voice. "And you know it. You're all the things that they say you are. You're different!"  
  
I couldn't hear or see the men anymore. All I could hear was that voice, my own mocking inner voice, jeering at me.  
  
"Different! Different! DIFFERENT!"  
  
My head was spinning. I felt as though I was going to faint.  
  
Then another voice, angry and authoritative, penetrated the strange fog enveloping my mind. "What on Earth is going on here?" It said.  
  
Reality was restored in an instant. I was standing with my back against the wall, and two men were holding my arms. Their laughter died as my father stepped towards us, and they let go of me abruptly.  
  
"Er - it was all his fault, sir," said one, pointing an accusing finger at me. "He's been running amok, disturbing us and showing us those strange scars on his face. Poor little boy. He must be mad!"  
  
My father looked at me sternly. "Erik!" he cried. "Come here! I want a word with you!"  
  
I trembled. It was clear that he was very angry with me. I didn't dare move. I didn't dare approach my own father! Whatever was wrong with me?  
  
I looked at the crowd of men, then at my father, and then I ran from the yard as fast as my damaged leg could carry me.  
  
"Erik! Come back here at once!" My father cried furiously. I ignored him, and kept on running. I dashed round corner after corner, until, to my vast surprise, I caught sight of a familiar face sitting on a bench in the cathedral square. I took a flying leap, and dived straight into my mother's arms.  
  
"Erik!" she cried, startled. "Go away! I don't want you here!"  
  
I clung to her tightly, too relieved to see her to let her go. I made the mistake of forcing myself into her arms and resting my disfigured face against her shoulder.  
  
"Get off!" She cried, angrily pushing me away. It was then that I noticed there were two other people sitting on the bench next to her. I turned around, startled.  
  
They were both women, and, as I looked at them with a confused, frightened expression on my face, one of them let out a great peal of laughter.  
  
"Look at those lips!" she giggled, dragging me towards her. I received another hard pinch on the face. "Oh, Marie! He's wonderful! I've never seen anything like it! Is he really yours?"  
  
My mother glared at me. "Not if I could help it," I heard her mumble.  
  
"You know, my friend used to run a freak show. I'm sure he'd be only too happy to start it up again if he had this little fellow as an exhibit!"  
  
My mother glared at me, and I looked down at my toes. I knew this was entirely my fault, all of this fuss. I presumed that I had done wrong, that it was somehow a crime to be deformed. I didn't understand why.  
  
While my mother was glaring at me and her friends were 'admiring' my face, my father ran up.  
  
"There you are, you revolting little creature!" he said, angrily. He caught me and dragged me roughly towards him by the scruff of my neck.  
  
"Too right he's revolting!" said one of the women. I can just picture the looks on the faces of the audience in my friend's freak show!"  
  
"He should be locked up!" my father complained, shaking me violently by the arm. "He made a laughing stock of me at the yard today, with that hideous face of his. I don't know why I bothered to take him with me!"  
  
"I don't know why we bothered to keep him at all," said my mother. "The housekeeper was right. He should have been dropped on the fire or drowned as soon as he was born!"  
  
This last statement filled me with terror. I couldn't imagine anyone doing that to a human being, especially their own child. Fear gave me strength, and I managed to break free from my father's grasp. Before he could stop me, I was off down the busy streets of Rouen. Oh, why were they so unkind to me? Why did they all hate me so much? What had I done wrong? Those men were right. I WAS a freak!  
  
These thoughts rushed through my head as I ran blindly through the cold streets, terrified that someone was going to chase after me and catch me.  
  
I ran into a disused shed behind one of the larger houses, and there I stayed until they found me the next morning, weeping and trembling in the corner. 


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Once again, I'm sorry that it has taken me so long to update. I've been suffering from severe writer's block (and working on 'The Price of Fame,' which I'm hoping to update within the next two weeks), but now I think I finally know where this story's going (fingers crossed!). Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter.  
  
This is another chapter from Mme. Giry's POV. Please review! Any comments or criticisms are very welcome, as always. Enjoy!  
  
A Phantom's Story.  
  
Chapter Eight  
  
Antoinette Giry. 1856  
  
The sound of the organ coming from the attic bedroom was savage and relentless. It wasn't even music...just a series of loud, soulless chords which seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. Maybe Erik was trying to make the walls of his prison crumble to the ground.  
  
Erik worried me. Ever since that fateful day in Rouen, he had been behaving so strangely that I feared for his sanity. When his father had returned him, pale and trembling, from the building site, I had embraced him with tearful relief. But he was cold and unresponsive in my arms. He did not speak. Instead he seemed to be staring straight ahead at some horror which I could not see. When I turned on Philippe with furious demands for an explanation, Erik fled upstairs to his room without a word.  
  
Two weeks had passed. Two weeks during which he had barely looked at me, let alone spoken. He spent most of his time shut away in his room, striking the keys of his organ, scarcely eating or drinking. I tried to question him about his experience in Rouen, hoping to find some clue as to the reason for his strange behaviour, but he would simply stare right through me. Philippe told me that Erik had got into a fight with some men at the building site, but this hardly seemed an adequate explanation for his melancholy. There had to be something else...  
  
As I sat sewing in my room, I heard the noise from the organ grow increasingly frenzied; the angry, crashing chords finally culminating in a loud, shrill scream from Erik. I leapt to my feet and rushed upstairs, fearing that he had somehow hurt himself. The noise had now ceased and, standing outside his bedroom door, I could hear loud, anguished sobbing coming from within.  
  
Slowly, being careful not to startle him, I pushed open the door. Erik was sitting slumped over the keyboard, head in hands, his whole body shaking with his sobs. Aghast at this sudden display of raw emotion, I took a step towards him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He started violently, his head jerking up from the keyboard. He looked up into my eyes and began to cry even more piteously, reaching forward to grasp my hands. I gathered him into my arms, massaging his back and shoulders and stroking his sparse, fluffy hair...anything that might soothe him.  
  
I was shocked by the suddenness of his outburst, but I was also rather relieved. The last two weeks had been terrible, and I was forced to admit that I would rather hear his sobs than endure his silence.  
  
Several minutes passed, and, as his sobbing subsided, I gently asked him what was wrong.  
  
'I can't find it, Aunt Giry,' he said, his voice edged with tears.  
  
'Hush. What can't you find?'  
  
'The music, Aunt Giry. I can't find the music. It won't come. I've tried...so hard...for days...' And he gave a choked sob.  
  
I understood completely. The savage, angry chords he had been playing were simply his frustrated attempts to find his lost muse. Years before, a severe shock had rendered him unable to sing. And now, after some other awful experience, he was on the verge of losing his gift for composition. The very thought of this terrified me, and Erik seemed to sense my fear, because he hugged me tighter.  
  
'What happened at the building site, Erik?'  
  
If I was to help him, I needed to know.  
  
Erik looked up at me, and his golden eyes seemed to flicker with fear.  
  
'You know what happened,' he replied shakily. 'I had a confrontation with some men. They tore off my mask...it was terrible...'  
  
I didn't doubt his words, but I knew he was keeping something from me.  
  
'What happened after that?'  
  
Erik turned away, and covered his face with his hands.  
  
'Nothing.'  
  
'Erik.' I took hold of his hands and gently pulled them away from his face. Then I cupped his chin in my hand, forcing him to look at me. 'Erik, there's something you're not telling me. Please talk to me. There's no need to be afraid.'  
  
'You don't know that,' he said darkly. The intensity of his words made me shudder.  
  
'Yes I do,' I insisted, but my voice shook uncertainly. 'Has someone threatened you? Has your father said something to you? Or your mother?'  
  
This seemed to strike a chord. Erik shivered. There seemed to be some sort of conflict going on inside his mind. Finally he spoke.  
  
'Alright, I'll tell you. But please don't be angry.' He paused for a moment, and took a deep breath. 'When I ran away from those men, I met my mother in the town square. She was with some friends. They laughed at me and said some strange things. Then my father ran up. He said he shouldn't have brought me to Rouen in the first place. And my mother said...my mother said...' He broke off, and covered his face with his hands again. 'She said I should have been thrown on the fire or drowned the moment I was born.' And Erik burst into tears.  
  
I was shocked, and very, very angry. I wanted to go downstairs and scream and rave at Marie. How could she hurt him like this?  
  
'Why didn't you tell me before?' I asked in bewilderment.  
  
'Because I knew you'd be upset and angry with my mother...and I don't want you to be angry with her, because...because I think what she said...is true...'  
  
My eyes widened. 'You think you should have been killed?'  
  
He nodded.  
  
'With a face like mine, I'm not much use to anyone, least of all myself. I'm just a poor monster. That's how others see me, and now I know they're right. Perhaps it would have been better if...better if...' His voice broke, and he slumped back against the organ.  
  
My eyes filled with tears, and I reached out to him.  
  
'Oh, Erik! How can you say that? You're so beautiful, so precious to me! Please don't think such morbid thoughts! Why, you've got so much to offer the world...'  
  
'But that's not true! What's the use of a musician who will never be heard? An architect who will never be permitted to build? When I was born, I was saved from death, but for what? To live up here, in this attic, until the day I die? Even if I do have anything to offer the world, I'll never be able to leave this place! So I'm sure you'll forgive me, Aunt Giry, if I find your optimism rather hard to stomach.'  
  
I couldn't bear to hear him say such things. It was true that his face was a hindrance, but I couldn't sit back and watch his isolation destroy him. As impractical as it seemed, I knew there was only one thing to be done.  
  
'Yes, Erik. You can leave this place. You can live in the world outside...and you will.'  
  
Erik shook his head. 'It's not possible...'  
  
'Yes, it is. We'll leave. We'll move to Paris. We'll live in the Opera House.'  
  
Erik, tears still clinging to his cheeks, suddenly laughed.  
  
'Don't be silly, Auntie! People don't live in Opera Houses!'  
  
But I could tell he was intrigued by the idea.  
  
'Yes, they do. Most of the young ballet girls live there. They sleep in dormitories. And the ballet mistress has an apartment in the building. She's a kind woman. She would find us somewhere to sleep, I'm sure.'  
  
'But what if she doesn't? What if she takes one look at me and...'  
  
'Erik! If she doesn't, we'll sleep on the streets! For all I care, we can move in with a family of charitable rats, as long as we get out of this wretched house!'  
  
Erik's eyes shone with a childish excitement and hope which made my heart leap with joy.  
  
'I've always wanted to see the Opera...to live where I can hear music.'  
  
'And you will! And what music! Oh, Erik...we'll be so happy...'  
  
'When can we leave?'  
  
'Tomorrow. We'll leave tomorrow.'  
  
* * *  
  
That night I lay in bed, unable to sleep. I could not believe what I had promised Erik...the whole idea was insane. In truth, I had no idea whether the ballet mistress would find us somewhere to stay, and living on the streets was a possibility too horrible to contemplate. But I knew we needed to try, not just for Erik's sake, but for mine.  
  
Over the past months I had felt more isolated than I would ever have revealed to Erik. When I had first taken on the responsibility of caring for him it had been hard, but I had pushed all my youthful ambitions and hobbies to one side in order to devote myself to him. But I was only just twenty-one when I adopted him. I had my whole life ahead of me.  
  
But now, five years later, I felt that this was no longer the case. And in those dark hours when poor Erik was unhappy and difficult to live with, my dreams had come back to haunt me.  
  
As a young girl, I had watched my older sister grow up, marry, have children, and I had wanted these things so badly. As a junior member of the Corps de Ballet, I had my admirers, but nothing had ever gone further than a few secret caresses in the dark corners backstage. These moments were spent with young boys of the ballet who, amidst the wealth of female company available in the Opera House, soon tired of me. I was not a prude, but neither was I one of those disgustingly flirtatious dancers who made love at the drop of a hat. I refused to become a plaything for the rich young fops who haunted the dancers' lounge after each performance. But still I lived in hope that, one day, I would find my special someone.  
  
When Erik was born, this dream was pushed aside by my fascination and deep love for this strange, delicate little creature. Since I had started caring for him, my visits to the Opera House had become too infrequent for me to indulge in romantic encounters. For several years, this didn't bother me. As Erik had grown older, however, I found that my occasional visits to the Opera filled me with longing for what the other performers enjoyed that I knew I could not have. However, the idea of moving to Paris and dancing at the Opera on a regular basis awakened some hope in me. I did not expect, nor even want a full-blown romance, but the prospect of chocolates and flowers being left in my dressing room, the imagined sensation of warm male lips kissing my hand, were enough to seduce me. The idea of some male attention, some real female friends, and the reintroduction of glamour into my life attracted me, despite my devotion to Erik.  
  
Like him, I had lived in the dark for far too long.  
  
And it wasn't just the possibility of a social life. I was getting on in years, and was now a senior dancer in the Corps. As a girl, I had enjoyed dancing but had never really taken it seriously. It had seemed almost trivial...the pastime of a rich young lady who would never have to fend for herself. Now, after watching several of my fellow dancers become much admired ballet stars, I longed for my turn in the limelight. I knew that, if I didn't throw myself into my career now, if I didn't strive for perfection and success, the opportunity would be lost forever. I wanted to dance the great classical roles. I wanted to be the prima ballerina.  
  
I knew I had the talent. I was currently not as fit as I should be, but that would soon change. I would perform before royalty, before the emperor himself.  
  
And, best of all, I would perform before Erik.  
  
It may sound as though I was lost entirely in my own selfish dreams as I lay in bed that night, but I wasn't. My hopes for Erik eclipsed my own dreams of fame and fortune. He would, at last, be in an environment in which he could experience the music he so loved on a grand scale, through the voices and dexterous hands of the greatest artists in the country. More importantly, he would have the opportunity to get his own talents recognised.  
  
I smiled to myself in the darkness of my bedroom. His compositional skills would recover and, already outstanding, would become nothing short of supernatural. And perhaps, one day, when his confidence had increased, I would hear that awesome, angelic voice issue from his throat once again.  
  
* * *  
  
We could not depart for Paris the following day. This proved to be a totally unrealistic part of the plan. There were things to prepare, belongings to pack...and, most importantly, I had to talk to my sister.  
  
Poor Marie. She had been our gaoler for so long, but the thought of leaving her filled me with grief. She had said and done some terrible things to Erik, for which I could never forgive her. But she was still my big sister, the companion of my childhood, and I knew I had to give her an honest explanation for our departure. She deserved that much.  
  
Several days after Erik and I made our plans, I went down to the drawing room to speak with her. I could have spoken to her angrily - I had sufficient justification to do so – but I wanted us to part on good terms. I sat down on the sofa and, after asking her to sit next to me, I calmly told her that Erik and I were leaving.  
  
Her eyes widened in disbelief.  
  
'But Antoinette, you can't leave! Where will you go?'  
  
'To Paris. I'm going to start dancing at the Opera on a full time basis.'  
  
'But you won't leave me, Antoinette! You can't! I know I've been ungrateful, even cruel to you at times, but I'm your sister!'  
  
I smiled sadly.  
  
'I know. But it's not me you've been cruel to, Marie. It's Erik.'  
  
Marie narrowed her eyes.  
  
'Oh, Erik! I really don't know why you bother with that little monster, Antoinette!'  
  
I was becoming angry, but I managed to keep my voice level.  
  
'I bother with him because I love him, Marie. And if I didn't care for him nobody else would, as you've demonstrated yourself on more than one occasion.'  
  
Marie hung her head.  
  
'I'm sorry, Antoinette, but I just can't stand him.'  
  
'I know, and I can't keep Erik here in a house where he's not welcome, can I?'  
  
Marie turned away from me, clearly on the edge of tears.  
  
'And that's why you're leaving? Because you want to keep Erik away from me?'  
  
'Not so much away from you, but away from this whole house. Erik needs his freedom...he needs to be given a chance to live in the world outside. And it isn't just about Erik. I also need that chance, Marie. I want to be able to dance again. Really dance.'  
  
She looked at me, her eyes filled with misery and tenderness in equal measures.  
  
'Life can be hard in Paris. You'll soon run out of money.'  
  
'I know it'll be hard, but I'll do my best. If I'm not successful as a dancer, I'll look for another job in the theatre. In the costume department, perhaps.'  
  
'When are you leaving?' She asked, with resignation.  
  
'Tomorrow morning.'  
  
'You will say goodbye to me and the girls, won't you?'  
  
'Of course.'  
  
We embraced, the tears running down our cheeks.  
  
As I stood up to leave, Marie grasped my hand.  
  
'Antoinette...if you change your mind, don't hesitate to return home.'  
  
'I won't change my mind.'  
  
'Is there anything I can do for you before you go?'  
  
I thought for a moment, and then smiled at her.  
  
'Well, there is one thing...'  
  
* * *  
  
The following morning I bid a tearful farewell to Marie and my three nieces. After many kisses and promises to write, I went out into the hall where Erik was waiting for me.  
  
He looked sad and small as he stood there, clutching his violin case. I knew he wanted to say goodbye to his mother, despite her past cruelty, but this was something I could not permit. I smiled at him, and he made a brave effort to smile back. Then I took his hand and led him out of the house.  
  
I paused for a moment on the doorstep, listening intently. I prayed that Marie would keep her promise, but I heard nothing. Sadly, I led Erik towards the waiting carriage.  
  
And then I stopped dead, Erik stiffening beside me.  
  
Marie's pure, angelic voice was floating down from the second floor of the house. I looked up to see her standing at her bedroom window, dressed in white, her golden curls cascading down her shoulders. She had thrown open the window and was singing an old French folk song. The beauty of the sound brought tears to my eyes, and I looked down at Erik. He stood perfectly still, his eyes wide with wonder, gazing up at his mother. Marie did not look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the distant horizon. Her tender looks would never be for Erik. She could not meet his loving gaze in her coldness. But her song was for him and for him alone, gently caressing him in a way which her hands never would. Erik seemed to understand this completely. He smiled at his mother, the tears streaming down his cheeks.  
  
Several moments passed. When I finally put my hand on his shoulder, he seemed ready to leave.  
  
As the carriage pulled away from the house, Erik kept his eyes fixed on his hands, which were neatly folded in his lap. He did not look back at his mother, but Marie's voice, beautiful and ghostly, followed us as if carried on the wind. 


	9. Chapter 9

Author's note: I've finally updated! My serious Erik muse decided to go into hibernation while I worked on my parody, and I've only just managed to wake him up!  
  
Thank you to everyone who reviewed my last chapter. I hope you haven't got tired of the wait and given up on me!  
  
Anyway, this chapter is another 1881 chapter, from Christine's POV. From now on I'm going to try and write a past chapter, then an 1881 chapter, and so on to give the story more of a structure. And I promise you'll find out why Erik is so hostile towards Mme. Giry within the next couple of chapters.  
  
I hope you enjoy!  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom. The characters and events in this story are based on those in the musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber and the novel by Gaston Leroux.  
  
Christine 1881  
  
I was awoken by the sound of a music box playing a tender little melody. The strangeness of the sound did not immediately register, and for a moment I was certain I lay in my own bed in the Opera House dormitory.  
  
I knew I had been dreaming. I could not remember much about the dream, only that it was filled with longing for something which I could not have. I remembered a dark shape with golden eyes, a journey across a misty lake, and hands that felt like silk. And there had been music...  
  
The sound of an organ suddenly tore through the air, bringing me back to my senses in an instant. My eyes flew open and I looked around in bewilderment. This was not my own bed, and the room in which I now found myself certainly wasn't the dormitory.  
  
And then the events of the previous evening came flooding back in a terrifying rush.  
  
My God, the Phantom! I had been so sure it was a dream, but I was obviously still here, in his lair!  
  
I leapt out of bed and gazed at my new surroundings in wonder. The bed was shaped like a gondola, much like the one I had travelled in the previous evening. It was surrounded by red silken curtains. The floor was of varnished wood, and the walls were stone, decorated here and there with tapestries. The music box was beside the bed: a little lead monkey playing the cymbals atop a barrel organ.  
  
Despite the strange beauty of my surroundings, I grew cold with panic. Was I now the Phantom's prisoner, doomed to spend eternity locked away in his shadowy kingdom? Why had he brought me here?  
  
Deep down, I already knew the answer to this question. I shivered as I remembered his seductive song, his hands upon my body. This creature wanted me, and – I admitted with a blush – his desire was not entirely unrequited.  
  
Embarrassed, I sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to calm myself. Despite his rather unconventional methods of courtship, the Phantom had, for the most part, behaved in an honourable fashion towards me. He had deceived me, that was true, but I sincerely believed he would not hurt me. I decided to seek him out.  
  
Following the sound of the organ, I pulled a velvet curtain aside to reveal a door. I pushed it open, and the most incredible sight met my eyes.  
  
I was standing on the threshold of an immense cavern, illuminated by huge candelabras. At the far end of the cavern I beheld the figure of the Phantom, seated at a gigantic organ with golden pipes.  
  
I approached him cautiously, drawn by the beauty and power of his wonderful music. He looked small in comparison to the cavern and his huge instrument, and, as I stepped closer, I noticed that his clothing had changed. He was now wearing a long, loose-fitting silken robe, intricately decorated with Oriental patterns: leaves, flowers, Chinese dragons. It was one of the most beautiful garments I had ever seen, similar to a costume that had been worn by Piangi in a particularly lavish opera. The Phantom was also wearing a matching circular hat, embellished with green silk and gold braid.  
  
I allowed his strange garb to distract me for a moment. I realised he looked rather sweet. Vulnerable is probably a better word. I could just imagine him reclining on a couch, smoking a pipe and reading 'Le Epoque.' I almost laughed aloud at this vision, until I remembered how delicate and potentially dangerous my situation was.  
  
Who was this man?  
  
I knew now that he could not possibly be a ghost or an angel. Surely ghosts didn't feel soft and warm when you touched them? Surely angels didn't sit in caverns playing organs? What sort of man had the power to masquerade as both?  
  
I walked forward until I was right behind him. If he knew I was there, he gave no indication of it. His large, pale hands moved dexterously over the keys, and his feet, with their delicate black shoes, were furiously working the organ's bellows  
  
He looked so real and so tempting. I longed to reach out and touch him, to run my hands through that gorgeous silky hair.  
  
And, more than anything else, I longed to see his face.  
  
Before I realised what I was doing, my hand closed around the delicate porcelain mask, and I tore it away.  
  
The Phantom gave a high-pitched scream of rage and spun around. Then the world suddenly went black as I beheld the terrible sight of his face. I uttered a cry and backed away, staring at him in disbelieving horror. The right side of his face was hideously disfigured, the skin terribly scarred, the lips swollen, the nose twisted. But the worst thing about the face was its expression, the way an awful snarl twisted the lips, the sweat on the brow, the blazing eyes which stared at me with pure hatred.  
  
"Damn you!" he screamed, leaping up from the organ bench. "So, this is why you came to me last night...you wanted to see the freak! Well, my dear, what do you think of me? I'm a very interesting specimen, aren't I?"  
  
I backed away in terror, repulsed by his face and by the saliva spraying from his deformed mouth.  
  
The Phantom gave a bitter little laugh.  
  
"Oh, you're trembling! You're scared of the poor freak! Well, I'll give you something to really be frightened of, you little demon!"  
  
And he lunged at me, fingers extended like claws. I screamed and ran, and he gave chase, cursing and swearing and growling and spitting. The pursuit seemed to last for hours, even though it must have only been a few minutes, and just when I thought I had managed to escape from that monstrous visage, it reappeared, like a face from a nightmare. And every time I saw it, it seemed to have grown bigger and more horrible, as though it would fill my entire world. I thought the monster would never stop chasing me, it was so furious.  
  
"Look at me, Christine!" it cried. "Look at your Angel's face!"  
  
After what seemed like an eternity, I collapsed with exhaustion in a far corner of the cavern and lay there, trembling with fear. I closed my eyes, waiting for the Thing to come and dash my head against the wall.  
  
But the room was silent. Maybe the Monster had exploded; disappeared in a puff of smoke. Maybe the nightmare was over.  
  
Then I heard a noise. It was almost a whimper, a tiny sound of pain or distress. The sound brought me back to reality, and I opened my eyes.  
  
And I gasped.  
  
The Monster was crouching on the floor a few feet away from me, and it was crying. It had covered the ugly side of its face with one hand, and its whole body was shaking with great, racking sobs.  
  
I sat there, frozen, staring at the pathetic creature with a mixture of pity and revulsion. A part of me wanted to turn away and run, leaving this ugly abomination alone in the cellars. But when I saw those tears, those tears in the beautiful golden eyes of that hideous face, I knew I could not leave him. As I looked at him, I found myself recalling how he had been the previous evening...his warmth, his music, his gentleness. I remembered the feelings I had had for him, the friendship that had grown steadily between us since he had first begun teaching me.  
  
"Maestro..."  
  
The Phantom cringed at the sound of my voice. Then he brought his knees up to his chin, wrapped his arms around his head, and began to rock back and forth, his shoulders still shaking as he wept.  
  
I watched him helplessly. I had never seen a human creature in such a state of madness and grief, and I had no idea what to do. I looked down at his mask, which I still held in my hand. It was such a simple, strange little object, and I could never have imagined the effect which its removal would have on him. Perhaps if I gave him the mask back, it would make things better.  
  
Fearfully, I slid across the floor towards him. He jumped and looked up at me in bewilderment, being careful to keep the disfigured side of his face covered with his hand. Very slowly, so as not to cause further panic, I held out the mask.  
  
The Phantom looked from my face to the mask and back again in disbelief. Then he started to cry again. I realised there was something different about his sobs this time. It was as though the madness and anger had vanished, leaving only grief.  
  
"Oh, Christine..." he wept, reaching out to take the mask with his spare hand. "I'm so sorry, Christine. I'm so sorry..."  
  
"It's all right," I said, my voice shaking. It wasn't all right, but I could think of nothing else to say.  
  
The Phantom got to his feet and turned away from me, slipping the mask back over his head. When he turned to address me again he seemed a completely different man: strong, confident, and in control.  
  
"This was a mistake," he said, extending a hand towards me. "A terrible mistake. I should never have brought you down here. I must take you back to the Opera House. Come."  
  
I hesitated, staring down at his outstretched hand in surprise. I should have felt relieved that he intended to take me back to the real world, but instead I just felt strangely sad. It was as though our special friendship had been destroyed in a moment of madness and horror. An overwhelming feeling of guilt washed over me as I realised just how much I had hurt this man with my callous curiosity. He wanted to take me back to the Opera House to protect himself from further pain, and I knew that, if I didn't make peace with him now, I would probably never see him again. This enigmatic and terrifying man was still my Angel, and, despite my fear and revulsion, the thought of losing him was more than I could bear.  
  
The Phantom looked at me sadly, clearly pondering the reason for my reluctance.  
  
"Why won't you take my hand, Christine?" he asked, wearily. "I will not hurt you. I wish only to take you home, and then I promise you will never see or hear from me again."  
  
I looked him straight in the eyes and shook my head.  
  
"I'm not leaving."  
  
The Phantom wrung his hands in agitation.  
  
"Why do you torment me, Christine? I'm giving you your freedom! Don't you think this is hard enough for me without you making it more difficult?"  
  
I looked at him angrily. This man expected me to obey his every command without question! Despite my fear, I dared to argue with him.  
  
"Well, I'm very sorry if my presence here has become such an inconvenience to you. You pretend to be the Angel of Music, you lure me down here, you frighten me half to death, and now you're going to send me back without so much as an explanation? I thought I meant more to you than that."  
  
The Phantom shook his head sadly.  
  
"Oh, Christine," he said. "If you had any idea how much you really mean to me, you would flee from me right now."  
  
I was silent, waiting for him to continue. Something told me that he was ready to talk to me now, but I did not know how to prompt him.  
  
"Do you have a sitting room?" I asked, finally. It seemed an absurd thing to say, but it was all I could think of at that moment. "I think I would like to sit down; just for a few minutes."  
  
The Phantom looked at me in surprise, and then nodded warily, gesturing for me to follow him.  
  
"Of course. This way."  
  
He pulled aside a velvet curtain to reveal the entrance to a smaller cavern. This room was similar to the bedroom, with its varnished wooden floor and tasteful furniture. There was a pretty, floral-patterned couch and two matching chairs, a fireplace, and a book case against one wall. Despite my nervousness, I almost smiled at the sight of the homely little room. The masked man looked all the more peculiar in this comfortable setting.  
  
He looked at me for a long moment, and then gestured towards the couch.  
  
"Please sit down."  
  
I did as instructed, while the Phantom busied himself in a fancy little drinks cabinet beside the hearth.  
  
"Would you care for a drink? Red wine, perhaps?"  
  
"No, thank you."  
  
"Do you mind if I...?"  
  
"No, of course not."  
  
The Phantom poured himself a brandy, and then sat down in one of the armchairs. There was a long silence as he stared at the golden liquid thoughtfully, swirling it around in his crystal glass.  
  
"You wanted an explanation," he said eventually. "Ask me what you will, and I'll do my best to answer you."  
  
"All right," I said, a little perturbed by his formal way of speaking to me. "But what should I call you? What's your name?"  
  
The Phantom hesitated for a moment, looking at me suspiciously from behind the mask.  
  
"Please?" I said, gently. "I can't call you 'Angel' anymore, can I? Not now I know you're a man."  
  
The Phantom sighed.  
  
"Very well. My name is Erik."  
  
"Erik," I repeated reverently. It suited him. "That's a nice name."  
  
The Phantom did not respond to the compliment. Instead he continued to stare into his brandy.  
  
"Erik..." I began tentatively. "Why did you pretend to be my Angel of Music?"  
  
The Phantom downed a very large mouthful of brandy, apparently for courage, and gave a sigh of resignation.  
  
"I wanted to teach you how to sing. Your voice is the most beautiful I have ever heard and I wanted to give you the confidence and ability to share it with other people. I wanted you to have the fame and success which you deserve. At first I just wanted to be your friend. I knew you were sad because of your father's death, and I wanted to help you."  
  
"Then why didn't you just appear to me as you are now? Why did you have to pretend to be an Angel?"  
  
The Phantom's expression changed to one of deep hurt.  
  
"Why ask me that? You already know the answer!" He gestured towards his mask. "I didn't know how you'd react to me. I could hardly knock on your door after a performance and ask you out to dinner, could I?"  
  
"I suppose not," I replied, silently cursing my own stupidity. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."  
  
The Phantom drained his glass and put it down on the table.  
  
"No, I'm sorry," he said, turning to look at me pleadingly. "I'm so sorry, Christine. I should never have deceived you. I didn't know what else to do...it seemed pretending to be your Angel was the only way I could speak to you...the only way I could show you how much I...Oh, forgive me! Please forgive me..."  
  
The Phantom put his head in his hands and sobbed.  
  
I watched this fresh display of emotion in silence. I had never seen a man's emotions change so rapidly. One moment he seemed quite calm, the next moment he was in a fit of anguish and despair.  
  
Hardly realising what I was doing, I got up and went to stand beside him, cautiously placing a hand on his arm.  
  
He jumped and looked up at me, his eyes wide with surprise and wonder; the tears still streaming down his face.  
  
"I'm sorry, Christine. Oh God, what have I done?"  
  
I squeezed his arm gently.  
  
"It's all right. Please don't cry."  
  
The Phantom stared at me desperately. A single tear glittered in his right eye and ran down the smooth surface of his mask.  
  
"I love you, Christine."  
  
I closed my eyes.  
  
"I know."  
  
Author's note: Thanks for reading. Please review! I'd really like to know what you think of this chapter. 


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